


Young & Beautiful

by Velvetoscar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 227,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis, to his horror, attends an elitist university in which the name Zayn Malik means something, Niall Horan doesn't stop talking, there are pianos everywhere, and Harry Styles, only son of a drug-addled, clinically insane ex-rocker, has a perfect smile and empty eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, this has been in the back of my mind for forever, and now I’m actually writing it. It was loosely based off of Brideshead Revisited (initially), but then it got a mind of its own, and now it’s basically just a ridiculous story that I want to have fun with. All the places are made up for the convenience of the story. I’ve changed [most] names of the boys’ families because I sort of, um, drag their names through the mud and didn’t want to associate these characters with the real people. IN NO WAY does this story reflect on the real individuals it’s based on. 
> 
> This is probably going to be insane. Apologies in advance! ;)
> 
> (For writing and highly charged emotions, tumblr = mizzwilde)
> 
> This is a prologue of sorts.

The room is far too elaborately furnished, smells of polish, and nearly fucking _glows_ in the afternoon light. It’s essentially an advert for a home and gardening network. It’s gorgeous, sure, with its honey wood floors and cream colored walls, picturesque windows peppering every room and the plushest and most ornate furniture (in the style of _Baroque_ , for the love of god) clustered in the most artful patterns.

It’s luxurious and posh. And Louis abso-fucking-lutely detests it.

Not because it isn’t nice—he's not an idiot—but because of what it _is_. What it _means_. Here he is, having maintained a perfectly tediously normal and economically responsible life without his father’s money (thank-you-very-much) and now, as per the agreement struck between mother and father dearest in that nasty bit of divorce some years past, the latter had taken to insist that Louis attend the most awkwardly prestigious university England has to offer.

No pressure, of course.

Still better yet, father dearest didn’t even spring for a single; he insisted upon forcing Louis into one of the overly-compensating deluxe suites. The ones that require a flatmate.

So.

Not only is Louis being forced to enter a school completely out of his realm of expertise (because he was quite the social butterfly in the natural world, had a knack for making _too many_ friends, if anything), he’s now contractually obligated to share HIS space with some pretentious twat who shits money and plays a pretty game of thinly veiled superiority. (No, he hasn’t met said flatmate yet, and no, he doesn’t need to in order to form judgment.) Louis has never been equipped to handle these situations with much grace. His mother always said his fiery tongue would be his downfall, were he not able to keep it in check. And “keeping it in check” is just something Louis does not do.

With a plonk that seems at odds with the fine setting, Louis drops his armful of bags and bits, sighing dramatically as he surveys his surroundings. Feeling a bit poetic (this is, after all, the opening scene to his tragedy) he sashays to the window, peering out at the ancient buildings entwined with ivy, settled in the vibrant green grass before him. His room sits on the ground, he once again notes with distaste. His windows are incredibly low set, providing easy entry for any entitled shit-faced intruder to hop in without any difficulty whatsoever. One could, quite literally, just throw a leg over and they’d be inside his flat.

Which is just excellent.

Not that Louis possesses anything these little Midas-es would want. (Excluding impeccable style, grace, and a full personality. Not to mention morals and a solid work-ethic.) (Well. Mostly solid.)  

“Oh my god,” comes the stunned voice from the door, and Louis turns to see his mum gaping at their surroundings, eyes scrambling to take it all in.

“I know. It’s a bit much, innit?” Louis remarks offhandedly, hands in pockets.

“It’s…it’s something,” she breathes in a low tone, and Louis doesn’t miss the bitterness that lies just below the surface. “Your father certainly has a knack for the most ‘showy’ of choices.” Pause. “When it involves public perception.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow. “Yes, _Charles_ does, doesn’t he?” he replies delicately, placing special emphasis on the name.

He’s never been particularly comfortable with the term ‘father.’

With one last unimpressed glance out the window, he sighs and saunters forward. “C’mon, then. Let’s just get it all in here.”

His mum nods, still gaping with narrowed eyes, before following him out the door.

*

His mum left after they’d hauled box after box into Louis’ new abode, the murky cardboard contrasting against gilt picture frames and varnished ebony that had absolutely no place in a 21st century suite at school.

Seriously--why the fuck was everything gold? It’s Uni, not Versailles.

“I’ll see you soon?” his mother asked before she exited, voice teetering on the brink of frailty.

Louis nodded, doing his best to resist rolling his eyes in pained exaggeration. He was a good person, he really was—opened doors for little old ladies and all that—but his mother had a penchant for weakness and self-indulgent distractions, something he, nor his sisters, could ever really afford.

“’Course, mum. I’ll be back before you know it. One morning you’ll just wake up and there I’ll be, sitting at the table and demanding brekkie.”

“Or I could visit you?” she uttered with childish hope.

“Mum,” Louis sighed, lacing his words with feigned patience, “I’ll let you know. The term hasn’t even started. All right?”

She nodded, sad eyes gazing into his, imploring.

Right. Time to go.

Without transition, Louis wrapped impatient arms around his mother. “Thank you again for everything. Goodbye. Love you.” He pressed a stiff kiss to her cheek. “Tell the girls I’ll miss them, but only sometimes. Ban them from my room. And keep an eye out, all right? Don’t forget about them.”

She nodded, eyes still sad. “I won’t. Goodbye, Boo. I’ll miss you, my darling.”

“Best get going! Time is money!” was his response, sung in an overly chipper tone.

He watched her leave for only a moment before turning to the task at hand, mind still settled in the suitcases that littered the shining floors.

So now, Louis is alone, faced with duct-taped boxes, showy walls that mock him and his non-designer shoes, no flatmate (yet), and a very real sense of drowning.

“Well,” he mumbles, sniffing as he surveys his luxurious surroundings with hopelessness, “I suppose this is where it all begins.”

 


	2. I

The impression Louis had gotten from the letter [he’d barely skimmed over] regarding his housing was that his flatmate was to arrive on the same day as him.

Is this an exciting prospect? No.

However, does he want to get it over with so he can officially hate the fucker? Yes.

So Louis waits.

He waits long enough, foot tapping against polished floor, that his stomach growls and his eyes cross, and his fingers scratch at the fabric of his jeans. Because Louis is fucking impatient and he hates rich people—where the _hell_ is this bastard?

Decidedly uneasy, he decides to spend the time unpacking—something he rarely ever does. Usually upon his return from any holiday or extended absence, his suitcases sit in the room, stuffed with rumpled clothes and dirty socks, remaining untouched for weeks, sometimes months. It’s not until Louis will wake up one morning and wonder “Where did that _one_ shirt go…?” that they will un-camouflage themselves from piles of track pants and disarray, before becoming actively unpacked.

It’s a problem of Louis’—always procrastinating, always forgetting.

But he unpacks now—does a marvelous fucking job of it, hanging shirts on actual hangers and folding trousers in neat little stacks—and once his room is sufficiently set up (barring the fact that it’s far too sparse for Louis’ liking; but it is, after all, only his first day here), he takes to the other rooms of the suite. He stays far away from the kitchen because that is one place that he has never understood.

There really isn’t much to be done with the place.

Louis’ lack of personal belongings, combined with the overwhelming abundance of ornate trash that clutters the rooms, leaves for little creativity or wiggle room. However, he does manage to safely stow away all the semi-disturbing paintings of what appears to be bestiality (he doesn’t give a fuck if there’s a Greek myth about Zeus shape-shifting—a bird fucking a girl is still a bird fucking a girl) and soon, the stuffy atmosphere begins to take a slightly more home-esque feel to it.

Perhaps there is hope yet.

*

It’s been three solid hours (and four missed phone calls from his mum which Louis refuses to cater to, thanks) since Louis' arrival and every single ratty, cardboard box has been unpacked and unceremoniously dumped outside.

This is what success feels like.

And loneliness.

Because, even though he’s already decided that his soon-to-be flatmate is the bane of his existence, Louis can’t help but notice that he isn’t arriving. And it’s nearing evening. Which means he may _not_ arrive. Which means…Louis spends the night alone. Bored. Without friends or distractions. And how the hell is he supposed to cope with that when he feels like being entertained?

Not checking the time because that would insinuate he cares, he resolutely decides that he will leave the flat. He will leave, he will explore, and he will have dinner at a quaint café so that he can send Stan artsy pictures of himself sipping tea in the sunset in order to make him jealous for not having come along with him. Because goddammit, somebody better be jealous of him when he’s feeling this shitty.

Grabbing keys and scarf, Louis exits stage right and, avoiding the increasingly dense clusters of rich-bitch drones scattered about the grounds, he ducks out of the gates and sneaks off down the cobbled street.

All the while decidedly _not_ wondering about the whereabouts of his flatmate.

*

He’s certainly not over-thinking anything. He’s not.

It’s just that that age-old question keeps popping back up, settling in his bones and gnawing at his brain: _"Do I take this incredible opportunity given by Charles and build a future for myself and my family? Or do I shit all over it, smear it on the walls, and waste the fuck out of every last pound?"  
_

Like he said—the age-old question.

And while it claws at the back of his mind—and he really probably should address the situation at some point in the near future because term is starting in three days—Louis actively forces his mind to remain blank and neutral, instead focusing on the tea at his lips. Somehow it manages to slosh out the sides and spills on his trousers because _of course,_ but he disregards it, instead absorbing the quaintness of the café that’s located surprisingly far from the school, farther than he realized upon first walking here; he regrets not wearing better shoes.

But the quaintness can only last for so long and after checking his Facebook for the seventh and a half time in seven consecutive minutes, and two failed attempts at people-watching ( _where_ are all the fit men in this town?), Louis leaves with nothing to show but a cat-shaped tea stain on his thigh and a bored scowl .

He’d originally planned to walk home directly, content to just listen to his iPod, separate from the world and the tragic circumstances that plague him—no, he’s not being dramatic—but boredom seemed to have gotten the best of him because before he can fully comprehend the situation…

He’s taking vintage-tinted selfies on the road outside the parameters of his school.

And while, yes, some of the purpose for these photos is to brag to Stan, there is also a slow, creeping fondness blooming in the root of Louis’ stomach as he observes the quietly busy street with its ornate lampposts and flower baskets, the tall, ancient walls of the university standing boldly all around him, bathed in amber light.

Maybe this place isn’t so bad, with its smells of coffee, blossoms, and warm bread. It’s certainly a good backdrop for pictures.

Not that he’s admitting anything.

Amidst a posed smile that even _he_ admits is a bit sassy, the steady, low thrum of the town is suddenly interrupted by the put-put of an ancient engine, rattling into life as it steadily increases in volume. Perhaps a picturesque little antique vehicle is trudging along, a wee old man at the wheel, cap atop his head whilst he smokes a pipe? It would certainly fit in with his surroundings. How charming.

But then suddenly the put-put is at full blast, and the screech of tires is not far behind.

Instinctively fearing for his life, Louis immediately hops back onto the curb, twirling around just in time to see the source of the chaos as it speeds past.

It’s an old, cream tinted vehicle, much like the one Louis’d imagined—probably from around the thirties or forties, which is a feat in itself—and it’s absolutely stunning from what Louis [briefly] sees; it’s open, convertible style, and the white leather of the seats glints in the sun.

But its occupants, which are most certainly _not_ old men (there are three), claim the inside lavishly, two figures in pastel suits sprawled together in the front, hands barely on the wheel, and the third in back, perched _atop_ the seats rather than in them. The dark, curly head of the precariously-sat bloke tips back in delight as they speed further out of sight, raising what appears to be a bottle of actual fucking _champagne_ in the air, and the sound of cackling laughter follows the trilby-clad trio as the vehicle wildly rounds the corner, disappearing from view.

The stillness left in their wake is almost louder than they themselves.

Louis just stands there at a complete loss for words, phone in hand, the sassy selfie still plastered across his screen.

Because what _the fuck_?

Did that really just happen? Three kids adorned in salmon and cream fucking _suits_ just whipped by in a perfectly restored vintage fucking car, practically falling out of it and laughing as if they’ve not a care in the world? All while thrusting _a bottle of champagne_ in the air?

What the actual fuck?

Of course this falling-over-itself-to-kiss-its-own-arse school manages to be the most painfully stereotypical portrait of indulgence and gluttony. _Of course_ its inhabitants are swarms of spoiled brats, clad in tailored suits and handmade shoes, lacking any sense of decorum or subtlety.

Of. Fucking. Course.

And here he had thought he was growing to like the place.

With bitterness and disdain held perfectly intact, Louis pockets his phone and makes his way home, resolutely ignoring any pang of loneliness at the prospect of returning to an empty flat.

(Not that he wants a flatmate.)

(Especially after that street spectacle. If that’s what these students are like, he wants none of it.)

(In no way did that look fun.)

(Not one way.)

(Twats.)

*

The next day, Louis awakens with a new-found sense of self.

Because yes—he spent the night completely alone, without a soul to share a word, and he loved it. He actually really loved it.

How had he ever felt so lonely before? Being alone was incredible. _Louis’_ music blasted from the speakers tucked in the corners of the crown-molded ceilings, _Louis_ danced in the space provided (as obnoxiously as he saw fit—he was a drama student, after all), _Louis’_ things were scattered on the floor in their precise positions, and _Louis_ shut the windows from the chaos of the outside without a second thought or worry, baying at the moon until the wee hours of morning.

He could flip the obnoxiously sized flat-screen on and blast it at full volume AND walk around naked.

It was fan-fucking-tastic.

And so Louis awakens with the promise of the day on the tips of his fingertips as they push back the covers of his bed, brushes his teeth with the joy of solitude, and scratches his bum as he stares forlornly at an empty fridge for as long as he damn well pleases. Because he can.

Eventually he settles himself down in one of the plush, velvet chairs that feels like something out of Harry Potter, tea in hand, and makes to plan his day.

It will be Louis Time. A day to himself, to cater to his own needs and not pretend to put someone else before him. With his mum (who he still hasn’t called back; hello, 7 missed calls, oops) at a refreshing distance away and no sisters to pull him in five different directions, Louis is a free bird, and it’s high time this bird flew.

With plans swirling and tea warm in his belly, Louis opens every window, uncaring to the constant stream of passerby that can easily peer into his little sanctuary (and when did this go from a hell pit to a sanctuary exactly? Because he’s still not sure why he’s even here, still doesn’t know how to attend dinners with professors or wear gowns for examinations) and instead sucks in the fresh, summer air with renewed vigor.

A day for himself. A day without a flatmate. Hell, every day could be a day without a flatmate if he doesn’t end up arriving.

“But wouldn’t that be a godsend,” Louis mutters to the warm silence, taking one last, meaningful sip of tea.

So, naturally, it’s then that his flatmate arrives.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys slowly begin getting introduced. (yay!)

He’s fucking Irish.

Irish. And loud. And brash, enthusiastic, wealthier than the seven seas, and very, very Irish.

Is that robust little accent going to get old? Probably. Because Louis never claimed to be anything but judgmental, and the volume that this rosy-cheeked ball of energy procures is horrendous, borderline criminal.

“I’m Niall, Niall Horan,” he booms immediately upon entry, clapping a strong hand in Louis’ own. Swarms of men enter the flat, carrying suitcase after suitcase after neatly packed boxes. Because, apparently, new flatmate has brought a department store with him. “Nice to meet you, mate. I suppose we’ll be seeing each other quite a bit from here on out,” he continues seamlessly with a tone Louis can only describe as jolly—much to his horror.The boy’s face is set in a permanent grin, always seemingly on the verge of laughter, and haloed in golden hair. The brightness of his celestial blue eyes is almost endearing, matching his enthusiasm perfectly.

But Louis really doesn’t care because he’s already decided that he hates this loud, overwhelming person who has completely destroyed Louis Time and stepped on his wings. Quite a bit.

(Not to mention his style is atrocious. He practically has an army of servants and yet he chooses to wear a Ninja Turtles t-shirt? Nothing clashes more with Guilty by Gucci.)

“Well. Not necessarily,” Louis replies without ceremony, withdrawing his hand almost immediately upon contact, folding it into his crossed arms. He stands tall, keeping level eyes. Louis is very good at keeping level eyes.

Niall (which is an ugly name, Louis decides) tilts his head, puzzled, eyes clear of any insult, hands resting on his hips in dominant casualty. “How do you mean?”

Louis sniffs breezily, sidling away. “No matter. I’ll just leave you to your unpacking. I’m going to fetch some lunch.” He makes for his wallet and is just about there, when a pasty hand settles on his arm.

Splendid.

“Can I help you?” Louis bites, not even bothering to filter his distaste while meeting the easy blue eyes before him.

But _Niall_ , apparently unaware of how to interpret behavioral cues, merely grins and replies with, “I’ll have my assistant unpack”— _assistant??_ —“and I’ll join you. It’s on me.”

Louis crosses his arms once more. “That’s sweet of you. Really, love. But I can pay for myself, thanks.”

“Of course you can! Doesn’t change that I’m offering. Come on, I think the driver’s still outside. Thank mates,” the boy adds, casually sliding notes into the men’s hands as they bring in the last of Niall’s belongings.

 _The driver’s still outside?_ Louis is definitely not going to be able to handle this world.

“As much as I love a good chauffeur, I prefer walking. So—“

“Excellent! I could use the fresh air after being stuck in that fuckin’ car all day. I can’t stand all that sitting. It’s so goddamn boring.”

And before Louis knows quite what’s happening, he’s being ushered down the street and talked at vivaciously, almost abrasively enthusiastically. (Is there such a thing? Louis would have said no five minutes ago.)

No. Louis is definitely not going to be able to handle this _at all_.

*

Niall Horan doesn’t stop talking for two days.

His voice carries through the suite, filling in the spaces and settling in the floorboards, and Louis can’t imagine how he ever felt lonely because what is lonely when there’s Niall Horan?

He barely has time to brush his teeth in silence, always finding himself answering some ridiculous question called to him from the other room or, worse yet, finding himself singing along to whatever ditty Niall’s concocted on the piano or guitar. Because now Louis’ life consists of a blonde, brash Irish lad, clad in pricey track pants and preppy sweaters, oozing money out of his every pore as he serenades Louis with chaos and leaves him whiskey chasers in the morning, weed at night.

And though he’s not his friend (nope, because Louis could never become friends with such an over-privileged cog in the machine), he’s willing to put money on the possibility that he knows everything there is to know about this usually-drunk, sometimes-stoned, gleaming ray of laughing sunshine who plays classical piano at the break of dawn and clumsily plucks out guitar solos in the darkest hours of night, sleek electronics surrounding him, consuming piles of food at every turn.

That first lunch they’d went to was a learning experience in itself.

They’d only been there for twenty-five twinkling minutes (Niall insisted on some snobbish bar where they served you bowls of water, crisp napkins, and simpering smiles when Louis just wanted some chips, maybe a bit of chicken?) and Louis already knew where Niall was born, what his father’s occupation was—a big time music producer, actually, which Louis begrudgingly finds intriguing—why his parents divorced and when, how Niall came about the decision to attend school here as opposed to Ireland, what his four favorite cheeses are (cheddar, brie, gouda, and camembert) and his favorite brand of whiskey (Macallan). He also offered Louis a cigar three times, because apparently he’s forty-five years old.

Now, Louis’ never been a quiet person. He’s never been one to sit in the back and observe, unless in a foul mood. But even his own rambunctiousness is absolutely shadowed by Niall’s, who, he is quite sure, could befriend a broomstick.

It’s horrifying, it’s annoying, and it’s….strangely fascinating.

In a “You can stop now.” kind of way.

As their afternoon continued, every other word from Niall was “fuck” or “cunt,” there was a steady flow of drinks, and story after story of seemingly exaggerated situations were told, which Niall managed to downplay in his offhanded, laissez-faire manner, continually back-and-forthing between surveying the menu, bouncing his leg as he listened to Louis’ answers, drumming his fingers on his thighs, and laughing at...well…basically everything.

It was a loud laugh.

It cut through the crystal decanters and swirled the liquor, making everything brighter and, just _, more_.  

It was fucking exhausting.

“But what else can you expect when you attend an awards show, you know? Bunch of fat cat cunts eying your every move and whispering their shite to the big boys. I’ll tell you right now,” he continued, plucking the cigar out of his mouth as he leaned forward, wisps of dirty blonde sticking to the light sheen of sweat on his creamy forehead, “when I get into the business, I’m not going to play their games. I’ll tell you like it is. I’m not dickin' around—life’s too short for that. And I don’t respect dishonesty or cowardice.”

Physically, Niall Horan’s the spitting image of the sky.

Yet, under the ambient lighting of the luxurious restaurant on that first afternoon, with smoke pouring out of his nostrils and gleaming across the band of his Rolex, Niall’s presence possessed a strength Louis hadn’t initially felt; he was the spitting image of a pleased little dragon sitting on his mountains of gold, fiery breath curling around his smile as he licked at razor-sharp talons.

It was almost impressive.

“Those are big words, man. You seem quite…sure of yourself,” Louis settled for in response, quirking an eyebrow.

Niall just shrugged, stubbed out his cigar, and set clear eyes on him. “Why not be?” he replied simply, smile grand.

And Louis couldn’t find an answer.

He’d wanted to leave it there, bar any forms of further conversation (because yes, Louis had decided to hate this person, baby face or no) but his pesky curiosity got the better of him, as is custom, and so he found himself asking instead:

“So what are you studying to be, then?”

“Producer. Like my father,” was the immediate reply.

“A fan of music, then?”

“Love it. Can’t get enough of it.” A swig of whiskey. The ice tinkled against the glass.

Louis nodded slowly, watching. “How charming. Seems you’re on the right path then, boy-o.”

He nodded, smirking slightly. “Of course. And what about you?”

“Little ol’ me?” Louis teased, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his arms. He sighed, bringing a hand to his artfully disheveled hair. “Oh, I don’t know. Drama, I suppose.”

“Acting?”

“I’ll let you know. Until then, I request no questions, please,” Louis sniffed, taking a sip of his whiskey sour (which was shit, by the way—he hasn’t let Niall order his drinks for him since) as he felt Niall’s eyes observing him.

“You artsy types are…something else.”His voice was amused rather than irate.

“Dramatic?” Louis supplied, grin impish.

“Very dramatic. Now let’s eat. I’m fuckin' starving and want to get back before the piano comes.”

Louis stared.

“ _Before the piano comes?_ Are you being funny? You’re bringing a fucking piano? To our flat?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll fit. We measured.”

Louis almost pressed the matter because, honestly, he thought _size_ was the issue? But instead, he let it go, unfolding the napkin onto his lap and muttering, “A piano. Honestly? Didn’t realize I was living with the queen.”

Niall grinned, shot back an, “I could say the same.”

And Louis, lips pursed, concluded with a “Rude.”

Then the server arrived, Niall ordered enough food for the kitchen staff, and, after an intense inner battle between Louis and his inner pride (he will _not_ have rich strangers taking care of him as if he were a charity case, no sir-ee), he ordered the exact same for Louis. Much to his mortification. (“Are you saying I’m fat? Why the fuck would I be able to eat that much?” *shrug* “I can eat that much.” “That’s a bloody lie, nobody can eat that much.”)

(Note: Niall was not, in fact, lying. Niall _can_ eat that much. He even finished Louis’.)

It was an intense meet and greet, one that left Louis more weary than anything, but as Niall poured the drinks and laughed at all of Louis’ jokes, he felt that, maybe, he’d dealt with worse.

That is, until the piano came.

*

When they returned to their flat—and looking back on it, Louis kicks himself for not contesting the whole thing—Niall immediately made a few inquiring calls as to the whereabouts of said piano while Louis made a beeline for his room. Because sweet solitude was the only thing on Louis’ mind after that whirlwind luncheon from almost-hell.

It was just as he was humming his favorite Disney song and staring at the tall cream, molded ceiling of his room in a blissful zone (he really needed to start purchasing some decorations) that Louis heard the unmistakable chaos of a fucking piano being brought through the fucking door.

Careful to stay away from the debacle (but unable to resist from peering at the moving men’s bums through the crack of his door) Louis burrowed within the layers of blanket on his bed, hiding from his reality as any sane man would.

Eventually the clangs and the bangs died down, as did Niall’s joyously barked orders which were peppered with laughter and loudly-clapped handshakes (Is there anybody he doesn’t get along with? His joviality is disturbing) and Louis almost began to lull himself into a sense of normalcy, when the tinkling thunder of keys began reigning down on his peaceful solitude.

And that’s how Louis’ room no longer became a safe haven away from Niall Horan’s existence.

It was the exasperation of the situation that prompted Louis to stand before Niall—who was now effortlessly playing a faintly familiar piece that was both bold and gorgeous. In that moment, Louis marveled, just a bit, at the boy before him as he explained to Louis how simple the piano was, how freely it came to the fingers. All the while dressed in an oversized tank top and gray sweatpants, flatbill on backwards. Classy.

“It’s obviously not that easy to play, otherwise everyone would be at it,” Louis reasoned, and he  _might_ have rolled his eyes. With gusto.

“It really is. ‘S just not as fun as guitar.”

And Louis distinctly remembers thinking, _‘Oh, great. He plays guitar, too. Fucking excellent.’_

“I can teach you if you like?” Niall continued, eying Louis eying him.

Louis scoffed at the time, causing Niall to smile and follow up with a conclusive, “I’ll teach you.”

He wanted to complain but he didn’t, instead watched Niall’s hands flit across the keys.

“They make you learn shit like this,” he explained as Louis stared, arms folded, refusing to be impressed. “Your parents and that. It’s all part of the show.”

“Good breeding,” Louis muttered with light disdain.

“Aye, good breeding,” Niall laughed, eyes never leaving the instrument before him. “I bested Beethoven before secondary school.”

“Of course you did. You’re a show off.” And Louis mildly wondered if the boy would take insult, but Niall merely laughed.

“It’s easy, I’m telling you.”

And so Louis watched him (and he now realizes it’s the only time Niall is ever silent—when he plays an instrument) before suddenly asking, “Why did you stop?” And exactly when Louis started to care about Niall Horan’s life, he doesn’t know.

A shrug accompanied an “I liked guitar better.” And that was that.

After awhile, Niall was back to singing some unidentified 80’s song as he rummaged through kitchen cabinets and lamented the lack of groceries.

So Louis had tried to get away.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said smoothly, slipping into his shoes and itching to hear his own thoughts again.

“I’ll go with you!”

And fuck.

“Actually—shit—I just remembered I need to e-mail some mates back home“--e-mail still exists, right?—“so I think I’ll just stay back after all.”

With a shrug, Niall made some parting pleasantries before dismissing himself anyway. Which is one good thing about the lad—he has a strong mind and he does what he wants, accompanied by others or not. (But that’s the only good thing.)  

Louis was so grateful for the unexpected peace that he almost actually kissed the floors. All right. He might have actually done it, shame be gone.

But, as the time passed, instead of soaking up the much-needed Louis Time as was planned…he found himself to be bored. Very bored.

It was with horror that Louis began suspecting that, within the few short hours he had known Niall Horan, he had almost begun to enjoy the lad’s conversation. He was, after all, a people person, Irish socialites or not.

But this socialite was an over-indulged child with a penchant for cigars, golf, beer and whiskey, and guitar. Oh, and piano. Let’s not forget that piano. And it was that damn piano that so intrigued Louis. That led him to sit down almost cautiously on the bench in the still apartment and pluck the keys with a tentative curiosity that is normally quite foreign to Louis Tomlinson.

It was when Louis was just beginning to feel comfortable with that intimidating ebony beast that Niall happened to return.

“You’re playing!” he announced happily upon entry, toeing off his shoes and clomping toward Louis, who shot out off the bench like a spring.

“I’m not. I fell onto it. Obviously.” Louis scowled for good measure.

But Niall brushed the sentence aside, taking a seat at the bench, cologne and sweat invading Louis’ firm bubble of personal space. “Sit down. I’ll teach you.”

Instinctively, Louis wanted to protest. But as he once again heard the flicker of colored notes fill the space of their elaborately overcompensating flat, Louis took his seat beside Niall, and reasoned that he could always deny this incident later.

And that was how Niall gave Louis his first piano lesson. Sort of.

After a lot of repetition, gibberish, and flustered mistakes, Louis huffed with a, “This is so much harder than it looks,” and pushed himself away from the keys, crossing his arms in stubborn protest.

“Not really,” Niall replied with all the ease of one who’s been trained since birth.

Louis glared. “Well of course you’d say that! You’ve been playing since you were a fetus.”

“I’m fairly certain there was no piano in my mother’s womb.”

“Oh? You didn’t have one delivered?”

Niall burst into laughter.

And since that very first day of getting-to-know-you’s and sensory overloads, it’s been a continuous trial of Louis’ patience vs. Niall’s vivacity.

And two straight days of Niall Horan’s voice.

So, naturally, Louis isn’t thrilled to be woken up _again_ this morning for the _second_ day in a row by pretty little tinkling notes jutting merrily through a room that possesses far too much darkness to be called “morning.”

“You play wonderfully,” Louis fake-grins with sharp teeth, hair mussed, as he stands in his pajamas, voice gravelly from too-little sleep, glaring down at an oblivious Irishman.

“Thanks, mate!” Niall beams as his fingers dance along the keys, his frame adorned in a fucking _bathrobe_. Where does this boy shop?

“Have you quite finished?”

“Not quite yet—one more movement!”

And is he fucking serious?

The boy’s eyes gleam, clearly unfazed; or, perhaps, merely uncomprehending the gravity of Louis’ agitation. Which is not something Louis takes to lightly. He immediately presses his hands down upon Niall’s, stilling them, locking his gaze within his own.

“Niall. Mate. Stop. Playing. The. Piano.” Louis waits until a flicker of understanding brightens into life behind the lit eyes before him.

It dawns. “Oh.” And he takes his hands away.

Nodding with finality and feeling very much in love with the sound of silence, Louis straightens and turns to leave, eagerly awaiting a reunion with his plush bed and mountain of blankets.

Until:

“Do you want to get breakfast?”

Louis breathes a long, suffering sigh. “Niall—“

“We’ll walk, since the sun’s out.”

“I’m not walking this early, I’m exhausted! First you wake me up with that screeching hunk of driftwood, and NOW you’re—“

“My treat!”

“…”

“Well?”

“Where do you propose?” Louis sniffs, refusing to relent just yet as he stands with his arms folded, gaze firmly averted in obvious displeasure.

“That café on the corner. The one you saw last night—with the glitter balls.”

“Those weren’t glitter balls. They were mood lighting.”

“Glitter balls. So, how about it?”

Louis inspects Niall’s face, eyes narrowed. Sleep tugs at his eyelids. And yet…

“… I can get whatever I want?”

“Of course!”

“I’ll be ready in ten,” Louis sing-songs.

Because pride be damned, if these rich kids are going to throw away their money, they might as well throw it away on him.

*

The day continues as the past two have: Louis attempts to drown out his surroundings with every conceivable distraction available (phone, iPod, TV, sleep) but every single time he’s found a piece of Louis Time, there’s a knock at his door, a jarring burst of laughter, an invitation to play FIFA, or an electric guitar sizzling through the calm air.

This is just not going to work.

“Wanna smoke, mate?” Niall suddenly calls, just as Louis is debating the contrasting appeals of gold curtains versus purple.

Louis grits his teeth.

“Must you call for me every ten minutes? You really are a child, aren’t you?”

“Is that a yes?”

Fuck it all to hell.

Exasperated, Louis considers the offer momentarily (he could use a good smoke right now) before it suddenly dawns on him:

Term starts tomorrow.

Tomorrow!

And he hasn’t even assembled his notebooks! Not that he’s ever done that in his life.

But this is a proper school and he’s got to have his head on straight this round. He’s weighed the pros and cons of his situation, and as much as he wants to piss his father’s money away, he has an obligation to his sisters and his mum—especially his sisters—not to fuck it all up. And though he may not know just what the fuck he wants to do with all of this, and though that just might terrify him, he’s going to do this right.

He needs to prepare for school.

“Niall!” he suddenly shouts, determination flowing in his veins. He steps into their living room with finality, and Niall looks up from the couch, mouth stuffed with crisps and a little baggy in his lap, surrounded by laptops. “We’re going to prepare for school tomorrow. Pack your things, we’re going to a teashop!”

*

Why the hell did Louis invite Niall?

While Louis has been organizing his folders and notebooks and checking his school e-mails studiously, Niall has been staring at the screen of his iPhone 5, occasionally stuffing a not-funny picture in Louis’ face that he’d found on Tumblr.

Murder is eminent.

“Get me a beverage will you, Louis?” Niall asks absentmindedly, flicking through his phone.

Louis’ eyes narrow. “I’m not your monkey. Get it yourself.”

“Aw, please mate?” he begs, now looking up, his hair messy and sticking out at all ends from underneath his flatbill. “I don’t know what to order at these places.”

Louis sighs with the air of great suffering. “Well, son, you can either get tea. Or coffee.”

“I don’t like either.”

“What? What do you mean you don’t like either?”

“Just what I said. Do they have gelato?”

“Gelato? What the hell? No, they don’t have gelato! Where exactly do you think we’re at?”

“Well, get me something to eat then. I’m fuckin’ starving.”

“You literally just ate!”

“I can’t help it!”

And Louis is this close to cracking that goddamn iPhone over that pineapple’s head but, as they are in public, he settles for a deep breath and a focusing of the self instead.

“Just because you have the ability to purchase a small island, it does _not_ mean I’m going to cater to you. It’s people like you that suck the life force out of our society. And it’s people like me that need to stand up and—“

“I’ll fetch next round. Get yourself everything you want, and get me something to eat as well.”

Only because his stomach is grumbling and he has too much of a headache to continue, does Louis begrudgingly agree.

But only after: “What’s the magic word, Ireland?”

“Please,” and the word is curled into a smirk.

“So what, then? You want a water? A biscuit? Scone? Flatbread? A sense of decency?”  

“Yes to everything but the decency. Buy it all.” Pause. “ _Please_.”

Louis stares. “So you literally want anything?”

“Everything.”

“Everything. You literally want everything?”

“I trust your judgment,” Niall concludes, and he’s back to staring at his phone, laptop untouched before him, a clear signal of being done with the conversation.

Well then.

If that’s the way this is going to go.

With a smug bounce to his step, Louis marches up to the barista.

“Hello, love. I’ll take everything in the case.”

The girl stares. “Excuse me?”

“The lot—everything that you’ve got, I want. Every last crumb.” He pulls out Niall’s credit card. “Don’t worry. I tip generously.”

So when Louis finally returns to their table, several baristas in tow carrying tray upon tray of every baked treat this teashop has ever owned, he is fully expecting to be received with a temper tantrum. Or at least a filthy glare.

But what does he get?

“Oh, mate! This is awesome! Oh, this is brilliant!” the boy laughs loudly, and almost every face in the room stares on in mild curiosity. Niall claps a hand onto Louis’ back, briefly knocking the wind out of him. “You’re a good man, Tommo!”

“What did you call me?” Louis wheezes, and glares as he collects himself before sitting down.

Niall nods his thanks to the baristas—winking at several, and Louis isn’t oblivious to that Irish charm—before staring at the plethora of food before him like a kid in a candy shop. Which isn’t too far off from the reality.

“You’re supposed to be angry with me. I spent a lot of money on that,” Louis says pointedly, because fuck. Does this guy ever get mad?

“I can afford it,” Niall shrugs, before offering a scone to Louis.

He glares a full minute at the aforementioned item before finally sighing with defeat and grabbing it, picking it to pieces before popping a chunk into his mouth.

“Of course you can,” he mumbles as he chews, and Niall beams back at him.

*

They’ve only been at the tea shop for a total of two hours, but already Niall’s eaten most of the baked goods and Louis is clawing at his hair with boredom.

“Ready to go?” Niall asks for the fifth time, amusement written clear across his face.

“No! I’m preparing for my studies,” Louis sniffs, and returns to pretending to read his e-mail. It’s from a professor, it’s a standard greeting, it really shouldn’t be difficult to get through…but he hasn’t gotten past: ‘Greetings, prospective students!’

Fuck.

He’s just about to demand that Niall get him another tea, when suddenly the door to the teashop opens, and the distinct scent of wealth and tailored suits comes wafting through the humming air.

His view is blocked, but Louis’ interest is immediately sparked, a fedora and an assortment of cream colored suits barely visible through a gaggle of Topshop girls. The image of an antique car, three laughing men, and a bottle of champagne comes to mind. Louis knows, without any solid reason to believe so, that it’s them.

The room is fairly cluttered, posh kids scattered everywhere and mulling about, and as Louis cranes his neck to spot the newcomers, he manages to almost fall out of his chair.

“Oi!” Niall exclaims, immediately reaching out to steady him.

“Sorry,” Louis says hastily, eyes still trained on the lookout as he brushes Niall’s hands away. Where did the newcomers go? “Did you see who’s just come in?”

Niall blinks, looks out at the crowd with watchful eyes. “No. Why?”

“No reason.”

But Louis continues to stare, finally finding the source of his search. They have their backs to him (of course) and they’re sitting down, but Louis can already spot the hierarchy at hand. The fedora-clad one, caramel skin and slick black hair barely peeking out from beneath, sits in the middle, surrounded by doting minions. (Sad.) On his left is a smooth looking boy—Louis catches a brief glance of his profile, all mild features and sweet cream skin—who laughs politely, never leaving the fedora boy’s side. The rest all blur into one mass of eccentricity and elitism.

Well, well, well. Looks like this school’s got its very own “Mean Girls.”

“I hate rich people,” Louis finds himself muttering vehemently.

“I like you, too,” Niall immediately responds, and when he looks up, he’s grinning. “C’mon then, Louis. Let’s get back. I want to watch the game.”

“Yeah. Yeah, all right,” Louis agrees, and as he stands up and begins collecting his things, the door opens again, another waft of ‘pretentious rich boy’ wafting through the air.

He tells himself not to look—because then it seems he cares—but he can’t help but sneak a glance as he follows Niall out the back door.

It’s another boy, very tall, dressed in a mint green suit (Does anybody own jeans around here? Fucking seriously), but, once again, there are too many people in passing that block Louis from getting a good look.

The last thing he sees before he slips out the door is the tall, slender frame of the mint green boy, bending down to press a sweeping kiss to the fedora.

Then the door shuts, and Louis forgets the scene entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far too fun to write. It's just fun. Is it going to turn into a hot mess? Probably. Because, even though I've planned this out, I have a tendency to write ridiculous things. So we'll see what happens... 
> 
> Any questions, holla at the tumblr: mizzwilde


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now Zayn appears. :)

The first time Louis hears the name “Zayn Malik,” he’s sat outside his first lecture hall, studiously ignoring another missed call from his mum and Niall’s fervent texts demanding the whereabouts of his guitar. (He may or may not have hidden it after he’d been woken up at the crack of dawn by a fevered rendition of a Poison solo, amp at full blast—what did that little leprechaun expect?)

Eyes glued to his phone—and why is he even on Facebook? His newsfeed only leaves him irritated—he uses every ounce of mental strength he possesses to ignore the yipping girls to the right of him, resplendent in bland personalities and Chanel. They’re essentially bedazzled hyenas.

It’s just as Louis masters the art of selective hearing that two more girls suddenly join the pack, slamming the door shut as they scuttle into the building, giggling and bumping into each other as they frantically seek their friends, Prada bags flying.

Which is excellent.

“OH MY GOD,” the girl with lanky white-blonde hair exclaims, grabbing her chest, and Louis successfully manages not to scoff, instead focusing on a picture of his cousin’s dog chasing its tail. Something he would rather be doing right now.

The sharp cheekboned brunette next to her shushes her with a giddy giggle. “Hush! What if he hears you?”

For one terrifying moment, Louis thinks they’re talking about him. But then—

“He’s not gonna hear, he’s probably on the other side of the school grounds by now!”

Thank the baby Jesus.

“Who’s ‘he’? What are you talking about?” Hyena Number One asks, clutching her iPhone in French-manicured claws.

“Zayn Malik!”

And then a series of screeches ensues. Louis is sure that, somewhere, a dog is howling. Maybe the dog in the picture.

“NO!”

“We’re not even joking!”

“Oh my god! He’s so fit!”

“He’s even better up close!”

 _Up close?_ Who the hell is this guy? Louis’ never heard of him. Even so, he’s now flicking through his newsfeed with all the ferocity of one who is very clearly eavesdropping. Oh well.

“Oh my god, did he say anything?”

“No…”

“I don’t think he talks to people.”

“He talks to the boys.”

(The boys?)

“Well, obviously.”

“But I didn’t know he went here!”

“Well, his dad’s the bloody Chancellor, what do you expect?”

Oh, well that’s interesting. Fuck.

“It’s only his first year.”

“Does he live here?”

“Yeah, he’s got rooms in the tower.”

“I thought those were for dons?”

“Not when Zayn Malik’s a student.”

Damn.

Now Louis really is curious.

So, in an act of comforting rebellion, he makes a solid promise to himself NOT to ask about Zayn Malik, and obediently waits for his lecture.

**

“Who’s Zayn Malik?” Louis asks as soon as he’s entered his flat.

(All right, so he caved, but he’s heard the damn name all day and he’s never claimed not to be nosy.)

Niall glances up from the couch, a plate of cheeses in his lap and a cigar in his teeth--and is he watching Spongebob?

“You never heard of Zayn Malik?” he asks, genuinely surprised, and scratches himself through his track pants as he pops a chunk of cheese into his smoking mouth.

Note to self: money does not buy class.

“No, I’ve not bloody heard of him. I’m not in your little socialite, fascist club. I’m with the people,” Louis sasses with a roll of the eyes, and sheds himself of his shoulder bag (that possesses _far_ too many assignments, Jesus Christ—what is this place?) before toeing off his shoes.

“Well, his father’s the Chancellor.”

“So I’ve heard.” Louis takes a seat next to Niall on the couch, plucks the cigar out from between his fingers, and takes a drag. Then almost chokes to death.

“Easy there, sport,” Niall laughs, delighted as he claps his back, and makes no move to reclaim the cigar as Louis tries again, eyes watering. “Yeah, his father’s the Chancellor, and you know how that goes, so he’s the wealthiest fuckin’ guy I know—definitely the wealthiest goddamn bloke here—and his mother is Mira fuckin’ Wills.”

Louis coughs up a fountain of smoke and possibly his lung.

“Mira Wills? The _actress??”_ And he doesn’t know why he’s quite so shocked considering Niall’s own prestigious lineage (the other day he offered to show Louis his family _castle_ , for Christ’s sake) but all the same, Louis stares, dumbfounded, and mentally envisions every movie he’s ever seen with the lady in question and all the times he's insisted, through a face full of tears, that “That woman better win every fucking award this country has to offer because she can _act!”_

He may be a slight fan.

“Are you fucking serious?” Louis splutters, and Niall laughs, grand and loud, before offering Louis cheese as he flicks hair out of his eyes.

“It’s not that big of a deal, mate. Besides, he doesn’t live with her for the most part. Stays with his father.”

“They’re divorced?”

“Oh yeah,” Niall says with a low whistle. “It was quite the scandal, ya know. You’re not supposed to do that shite in this world. The fact that he married her at all was a bit of a controversy.”

“ _’This world?’_ ” Louis mocks, but Niall just shrugs and hops off the couch, going straight to the fridge. The white of his Ralph Lauren polo almost shines in the soft afternoon light, prisms from the chandeliers painting his back. Because yes—they have chandeliers. Louis will never get used to any part of this life.

“It’s frowned upon. It’s fuckin’ stupid, yeah, but it’s still frowned upon. For his father’s status, he’s expected to have a wholesome family and all that shite. Marrying an actress, who has no family connections at that, is a bit of a smack in the face. So you can imagine the reaction when they split.”

“Dear lord. I feel like I’m in _The Princess Diaries_.” Louis looks sharply up at Niall. “He’s not a princess, right?”

Another barking laugh escapes Niall as he pours himself a glass of whiskey. “Not technically. But he’s wealthy, fuckin’ powerful, a big name on the scene, and he throws a damn good party. Bit quiet, though. Never actually spoken to him before.”

“Why doesn’t he live with him mum?” Louis inquires, and he really doesn’t want to be this intrigued, but fuck it—this is juicy, juicy information. And it’s far more entertaining than reading chapters 1-5 on "The History of the Stage.”

“He did for awhile, back when she was married to Des Styles. Then _they_ got divorced and since the media had a field day, his father took him in. He’s a cunt though, that Khan Malik.  I’ve heard nothing but bad things. Makes a good Chancellor though—from a business perspective.” And he downs the glass of whiskey in one go.

So. Zayn Malik is rich and powerful and the son of a cold-hearted billionaire with royal connections. His mother is the best actress of modern cinema. So there’s that.

There’s also Niall Horan with his Armani shoes and limitless supply of cigars and whiskey and family castle and mum who’d come from old money and prestige and father who owns record companies and produces for the biggest names in music.

And then there’s Louis. With his self-indulgent, depressed mum who spends her days looking in the mirror with sad eyes and disappears for days at a time, a dirtbag father who made it big as a ruthless lawyer for the wealthy, and five sisters who are being raised to support themselves.

He doesn’t really know how to think about the situation, but it leaves a dirty taste in his mouth and makes him break eye contact.

“I’m going to go read,” he says, and he can feel the scowl on his face and the change in his voice, but he doesn’t explain it, and Niall doesn’t ask.

“All right. I’m going to check out the boat-house. Do a bit of rowing. I’ll leave you dinner?” And he means money, which only serves to make Louis’ scowl deepen that much more.

“Nah, I’m all right. Probably just have a bit of tea and toast. ‘M not very hungry.”

“Right, then. See you in a bit, mate.”

And while Louis stares at his elaborate surroundings, Niall slides on his shoes unthinkingly, humming “Heart Shaped Box.” Dangerously close to spitting out something rude and unnecessary (“Your existence is clashing with mine and I’m going to have to ask you to finish”) He stalks to his room, closes the door a bit sharper than he means to, and studies his reflection in the tall, gilt mirror next to his closet.

“Where the fuck am I?” he mumbles to himself and the words carry, almost echoing against the tall ceilings and archways. But Louis doesn’t want to hear them again, so he sighs and collapses on his bed, just as the door to their flat shuts, leaving only Louis and his very bitter thoughts.

**

Niall left him dinner, anyway.

Well. “Dinner.”

It’s actually just a half-drunk bottle of whiskey, some pricey chocolates, and a croissant. There’s a scribbled note next to it, which only says, “Tea’s shit. Have this instead,” and though Louis really wants to hate every person at this goddamn school, he’s beginning to wonder if it’s actually impossible to hate Niall Horan.

**

When Niall finally returns, he smells of grass, sweat, and cologne. Really good cologne. Like it was made by elves or extracted from a unicorn--that kind of good.

“What is that?” Louis asks, taking Niall’s arm and shamelessly sniffing his wrist. “This cologne is incredible. Is this new, then?”

“I just got it. It’s from a perfumery in France. Good, isn’t it?” he explains offhandedly, extracting his arm from Louis’ grip and stripping himself of his polo as he flicks on his music.

“What perfumery?”

“I never remember the name. You can have it though. Here.” And Niall tosses a little gold bottle to Louis, who only just manages to catch it.

He stares. “What do you mean, I can have it? Are you being funny? Because we’ve already agreed that doesn’t work for you.”

“I meant just what I said. It’s yours, Tommo.” Niall pokes through little piles of clothes on the floor, searching for a clean shirt as he meanders through the room half-naked, completely oblivious to Louis’ glare at the nickname.

“I’m not taking it. I don’t like gifts.”

“Bollocks. Yes you do.”

“Well, I don’t anymore. I’m not taking it.”

“Take it. I can get it any time I want.”

“Oh, right. I’m sure. What, does your father own it?” And Louis says it with mockery, but Niall responds with:

“No, my aunt does.”

And of fucking course.

“Oh. Your aunt owns it. Naturally,” Louis says, exasperated. “I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. Do you own a country, as well? Anybody in the family purchase the moon?”

“Not yet. Now take the goddamn bottle, ya cunt.”

“Fine. But I’m not saying ‘thank you!’ You forced this gift on me,” Louis says haughtily, and brings the bottle to his room.

He hears the cackle of Niall’s laughter in response.

He allows himself a small smile as he places the cologne on his dresser, next to his various hair products and lotions. “Why aren’t you the big name around here, Horan?” he calls. “Who wants to talk about Zayn Malik when there’s Niall Horan?”

“I’m talked about enough, mate. Now come here and smoke with me. I want to win FIFA.”

Louis grins, but makes no protest as he enters the living room. “Win? Your confidence astounds me, young one.”

Niall’s grin is wild and free as he hands him the controller. “It’s what I’m made of!”

“But we really need to start studying, though,” Louis reminds, settling back in the plush suede.

“Tomorrow,” Niall assures, picking up his bowl and the bag next to it.

“Tomorrow,” Louis agrees, and snaps a pic on his phone to send to Stan, with the caption “My life is better than yours !!!” before pocketing it and forgetting the rest of the world.

**

The first time Louis sees Zayn Malik, he’s late for his lecture.

He’s at the tea shop, frantically relaying his order (Yorkshire, half-milk, no sugar) and practically throwing notes at the barista—because he absolutely needs to hurry because he cannot be late again but, fuck, he needs caffeine—and is so emotionally taxed that he barely notices the presence behind him and the whispers surrounding it.

It’s only after he’s checked the clock for the third time in three seconds and his order is safely being made that he hears a passing greeting of, “Malik! Hey mate,” and the clap of a handshake. And suddenly every ounce of intrigue within Louis awakens, despite layers of exhaustion from another restless sleep--he’s going to smash that piano, and he’s going to make Niall watch.

Because as much as he’s heard about Zayn Malik (which is a lot, by the way—every day there’s some story or squealed praise in regards to him, in class _and_ out) he now feels as if he knows the bloke, and, if he’s being honest with himself, he really wants to know if it is who he quietly suspects it is.

Because he clearly pictures those pastel suits, the rumble of an antique car, that smell of wealth, and goddammit, Louis is enticed.

So, with all the nonchalance of a cat (they’re nonchalant, right?) Louis turns around, and his eyes connect with a fedora, shampoo-commercial raven hair, and irritatingly flawless caramel skin. And eyelashes. And perfectly shaped brown, maybe hazel, eyes. And _cheekbones._

And fuck.

 _Fuck_.

That’s it. Zayn Malik is not real. Zayn Malik is a hologram.

But yes, Zayn Malik is exactly who Louis suspected he was, now resplendent in a periwinkle sweater and cream trousers, tailored perfectly to his very pristine physique. Though, instead of being with “the boys” as he had been each time Louis’ seen him, he is on his own now, not a champagne bottle or minion in sight.

With his mouth actually agape, Louis stares at the boy before him, whose eyes are calm and unblinking, staring at the barista with an unwavering intent that appears more bored than intense.

And then a hand is thrust over the counter, nearly knocking Louis over, and there is a not-Yorkshire-tea in the barista’s hand.

“Mr. Malik,” the girls says immediately, and the aforementioned boy takes the drink without a word, sending a slight, careful nod of acknowledgment her way, before sidling off.

What the hell?

“Wait. Wait a fucking minute. I was here first!” Louis screeches (he’ll deny it later), affronted, but the barista looks just as shocked.

“But that was Zayn—“

“I know who that bloody was, but why on earth did he get his drink before me? He didn’t even order anything!!”

The girl is looking at him with genuine confusion now, bereft of speech.

Louis knows a losing battle when he sees one.

“Sod it. Just make my drink, please. I’m already late as it is, what’s a few minutes more,” he growls, and with a still-confused look in her eye, she finally begins his drink.

“Incredible,” he sighs to himself, shaking his head.

Because yeah, Louis can understand why others would be intimidated by the rich, with their silent demands and outrageous expectations—he didn’t even blink when he was just handed a drink, without words or payment of any sort—and yes, there is a slight, indescribable quality to Zayn Malik that is mysterious and powerful and very, very slick. Where Niall is a dragon, with fire in his belly and scales and bright eyes and glistening claws, Zayn Malik is a snake, coiled lazily in the sun and ready to strike if provoked, all silken skin and piercing eyes.

And yeah, maybe he’s beautiful, really fucking beautiful, but he took what Louis should have gotten and he’s entitled and a wanker and, yep, Louis hates everybody.

So he texts Niall.

_‘I hate this school and everybody in it. Death to rich people.’_

A second later, his screen lights up.

_‘Can’t die. Am immortal. Want to bunk off and get high under a tree?’_

And Louis really wants to say no.

_'Which tree?'_

But he says that instead.

Because he’s had a bad day already and he can just e-mail his professors his assignments. No harm done. Besides, it’s the first week of term—that never counts, right?

Right.

So, after finally getting his tea, he turns on his heel and smiles at the thought of an afternoon off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could spend the rest of my life writing about pretty boys in bands, I would be a happy, happy clam. 
> 
> By the by--Zayn's song [for this fic yo] is officially "Hot One" by Shudder to Think. Really. That's exactly what inspired me. 
> 
> Also, while we're on topic, this whole story is inspired by Lana del Rey's "Young and Beautiful." Now, if you haven't heard THAT, then you are missing out, folks. That's the reason I started writing this hot mess.


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' life gets a little bit worse.

Niall is ruining Louis’ life.

Because  every single night this week, they’ve promised to go to the library and study diligently.

And every single night this week, they’ve gone out on the town and gotten pissed.

Louis really needs to slow his roll.

“I can’t go out again. I can’t. I almost _died_ in lecture today. Do you want me to die, you selfish ass? Do you? Because I am _not_ exaggerating—I am on the brink of passing to the other side.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I’m not! I’m expressing a reality!”

Niall laughs as he opens the boxes of takeaway that have just been delivered while he sits at the piano (he can never eat at the table like a decent human being), his ever-present glass of whiskey sat on the top, his laptop open to some audio program that looks alarmingly like a heart monitor.

“Reality or no, it’s Friday. You know you’re not going to study—you haven’t once since we’ve been here,” he says simply, popping chips into his mouth and dabbing at the excess grease on his lips with a silken napkin. He stares at Louis expectantly—who is glaring in response—as he chews, soft blonde hair giving him a very false sense of innocence as he sits atop the stool in a t-shirt with a giant mushroom printed on it and sweatpants. His Rolex—completely at odds with his casual attire—catches in the light every now and then, a gentle reminder that this boy holds the world at his feet.

Louis jabs at a chip with his fork (he’s not in the mood for dirty fingers), fails, then throws it clear across the room at Niall’s forehead.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO PERSUADE ME, YOU MANIPULATIVE SWINE. FRIDAY OR NOT, I AM SPENDING THE EVENING AS A PROPER STUDENT. YOUR WORDS HAVE NO EFFECT,” he thunders, voice bursting through the room, and Niall jumps, catching the chip as it bounces off of his face.

Niall stares at the chip, then back at Louis, grin set. “My mate’s just told me of a place that has an all male staff. Says they’re fit as fuck and serve free drinks if you catch their eye. I’d be willing to check it out. Afterwards we can have Nelson”—Niall’s chauffeur (yeah)—“drive us around while we sing Justin Bieber until we’re sober. Have Rory”—Niall’s assistant (yeah)—“pick us up some cakes again. But I’m not having that shite wine this time—it tasted like candy wee.”

This boy is ruining Louis’ life.

He stares as Niall begins plucking at the piano keys.

He really, really wants to say yes. Sexy men serving him free drinks all night? Singing Justin Bieber in a chauffeured car as they hang out of the sunroof? Eating beautiful and delicious cakes all night?

Fuck.

He hates the rich. He does. This is all shallow. He hates this. Hates it. Hate, hate, hate.

“Of course I want to come, you utter knob!” Louis bursts, slamming fists on the table. “But I can’t! I have to study, Niall. Stop teasing me,” he whines, and with a disparaging moan, he sinks his head onto the table.

The twinkle of Chopin lightens the room.

“Next time then, yeah?” Niall says, completely unfazed.

“Yeah,” Louis groans, face smashed into varnished cherry wood. He really hates his life.

They stay like that for awhile, Louis facedown on the dining room table, chips scattered about, and Niall merrily floating his fingers up and down the keys as he half-watches the TV from across the room.

And then the music abruptly stops.

“Want to go golfing?” Niall suddenly asks hopping off the stool.

Louis lifts his head—a chip stuck to his cheek—and sees the boy standing before him, hands in pockets, expectant.

Where was the transition in that?

“I would rather peel my own skin off with a stick,” Louis replies immediately, deadpan.

“Suit yourself!” Niall shrugs, then shoots down the remaining whiskey and bounces to his room. “I fucking love golf!” he shouts.

Louis merely rolls his eyes before reconnecting his face with the surface before him.

It’s when he hears the shuffling of shoes and the unlocking of the door that his head shoots up again.

“Where are you going?” he demands, staring at Niall, who is now wearing a gray polo and white trousers, a cap atop his head. And are those loafers?

“Golfing.”

“What? But it’s half past seven! The sun’ll go down soon—where the hell will you go??”

“I’ll manage,” he says simply, and is just about to exit when Louis pushes himself into a standing position.

“What about me?!”

“I already invited you.”

“But I hate golf!”

“Exactly.”

They stare at each other.

“I don’t see the problem…” Niall says, genuinely confused, hand on the door, oblivious to any cares in the world.

Where did this creature come from? What is wrong with privileged people?

“Well. Fine, then,” Louis sniffs, “Go stick a ball in a hole.” He pauses, considering the sentence. “Lord knows I wish I could,” he mumbles under his breath.

“I’ll see you in a bit, mate. And then we’ll go out, yeah?”

But before Louis can protest, the door slams.

“I REALLY DISLIKE YOU AS A PERSON,” Louis shouts after him, just for good measure, but he’s met with silence.

And so now Louis is all alone.

Why does he have to have the worst flatmate in the history of everything?

**

Two hours later, Niall is back, and Louis has managed to open his textbooks and find the appropriate pages but has done nothing more, having been distracted by the home and gardening network.

“What are you watching?” Niall asks with clear disdain, wrinkling his nose as the two gentleman on screen describe the various uses of curtains.

“I’m having Louis Time. Hush. Did you know that putting curtains up along a bare wall immediately provides a room with texture, style, and space? It also is an aid in sound-proofing a flat. What say you, Nialler?”

“I say no. I’ll probably just end up knocking them down every five minutes.”

“You have a point there,” Louis grumbles, and flicks off the TV.

“So we’re going out, yeah?” Niall prods, hands on hips and a big grin on his face.

“Nope. No. No, really, I can’t. I’m way behind, I’ve got a million things I need to start, and this weekend is completely dedicated to Louis. It’s Louis Ti—“

“Louis Time, I know,” Niall says with a roll of the eyes, but his grin doesn’t waver. “I’ll have you reconsidering that as soon as you hear what I have to say, though.” He winks.

And Louis is successfully intrigued. “Oh?”

Niall nods. “Guess where I just got invited to go?”

Louis grins and climbs atop the couch, resting his chin along the backrest and facing Niall eagerly. “Where??”

“A party hosted by Zayn Malik.” Niall’s grin is absolutely wicked.

“Who invited you?”

“Some bloke I just met while I was golfing.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Niall agrees, and he begins stripping himself of his clothes, making his way to his room. “So you have to go now.”

Louis considers this. He genuinely does.

On the one hand, it’s Friday night, he’s got no _immediate_ obligations, and he’s just been given the opportunity to experience one of the greatest parties known to man, renowned by Uni students nationwide.

On the other, if he keeps this shit up, he’s going to fail all of his classes and end up living in a cardboard box in the back of a Tesco.

“No,” he says suddenly and firmly, standing up. “Absolutely not. I made a promise to myself and I am going to keep it.”

Niall steps out of his room, jaw dropped, a gray jumper half-on, exposing the cream planes of his chest. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I refuse to go.” With that, Louis crosses his arms and sits in the nearest chair, face averted away with steely determination.

“Lou,” Niall says, and it’s with such seriousness that Louis actually starts, “You don’t understand, mate. This is going to be incredible. You think _I_ can show you a good time? You think _my_ drinks taste good, _my_ weed’s good quality? _My_ friends are crazy? That’s nothing. This is the richest bloke I’ve ever met. Can you just imagine what a _party_ of his is going to be like?”

Louis really wants to stick Niall’s head in a toilet.

“I will smash your guitar if you keep tempting me with your devil words. I’m not even joking. I will do it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’m getting up.”

“All right!” Niall exclaims, hands up in defeat. “But don’t blame me when I come home tonight and tell you I’ve had the best fuckin’ night of me life. You brought this upon yourself because you’re being a cunt!”

“You will not sway me.”

With one last shake of the head, Niall returns to his room, fitting his arms through the jumper. “You’re crazy, Tommo.”

And, only because he knows Niall can’t hear him, Louis mumbles an agreement, glaring at his textbooks.

**

Niall left in a grand rush.

He was dressed to the nines in a crisp gray jumper, black slacks, signature Rolex, and a cigar that was already half-smoked. His hair was artfully disheveled (Louis did it for him) and he was wearing his best cologne. He looked rosy-cheeked and fun and his breath smelt of liquor, but in an oddly pleasant way that made Louis think of laughter and soft lighting.

Louis brushed off his shoulders and made him do a twirl before he deemed him presentable.

“All right then, you’re ready, son. Have fun tonight. Ring me when you’re pissed, yeah? Give me updates,” he said, and put on his best fake-cheer.

Niall promised, and then his phone began buzzing.

“They’re here,” he explained, and in a mad rush no two minutes later, their flat was suddenly filled with piles of loud, shiny men with bottles of beer and vodka; loud cheers where being thrown everywhere and laughter was bursting at the seams.

Louis stared at the zoo before him, feeling distinctly under dressed in his trackpants and Doors t-shirt. He hadn’t even washed his hair today.

“You comin’, mate?” a smiley boy with auburn hair asked him, but Louis shook his head.

“Nah. Studying,” he explained, and the auburn boy’s smile faltered.

“Studying?”

“Yeah.”

“... Right.”

And then he left.

Louis glared at his retreating figure. He always found auburn hair to be hideous.  

“All right, all right!” Louis suddenly shouted as the ruckus began becoming a bit too much, “All right, mates. Come on, then. You’ve got a party waiting for you!” He began ushering the drunken mass out the door, waving his arms wildly and feeling a new-found respect towards sheepdogs.

Just as the peace slowly began to reign again, Niall caught him by the elbow.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” he checked, one last time. He looked bright and pink and expensive.

Louis nodded. “I’m sure. Give ‘em hell, Nialler!”

He smiled in response, clapped a hand on Louis’ back, then bounced back into the fray, chanting some indefinable gibberish.

That was four hours ago.

Since then, Louis has made tea, attempted to make his bed (he stopped because he realized how completely pointless that is), read two chapters of his homework, poked through Niall’s room (and found nothing—that boy has no secrets), and has danced around the flat to every song on his “Boredddd” playlist. Which he just made.

Now, Louis is once again attempting to study.

But, of fucking course, the chaos from outside is becoming a deafening roar as students celebrate the first weekend at school.

And he wants to shut his windows—those damn windows that practically lie on the ground, exposing him to all the drunken idiots scrambling by—but it’s hot and he likes the breeze, and if he just turns his music up that bit more…

He's gotten four texts from Niall so far.

The first one was a picture of himself, surrounded by an actual castle built from neon, glowing shots, their saturated light soaking into his shaded skin, with the caption, “Wish you were here, mate!” underneath.

The second one was a picture of a girl in a giraffe costume wearing a tiara and holding a bottle of absinthe. The caption underneath this one read: “She’s fucking crazy !!!! Absinthe !!!”

The third one was simply text. It said, “I have seen the fourth dimension.”

And the last one merely said, “Butterbeer.”

So he seems like he’s having a good time.  

Which is well and good and all for Niall, but Louis’ been staring at the same page for fourteen minutes now, resolutely ignoring the line of windows on the other side of the room, and tapping his pen against a blank notebook page. It’s safe to say that Louis is _not_ having a good time.

But he needs to study. He needs to. He’s at this incredible school and he’s been given a chance, and he _needs_ to succeed. He’s very aware of the fact that this school certainly would provide an excellent stepping stone towards bigger and better things. Maybe he doesn’t exactly know what he wants to do, but the options are open. Perhaps he’d find himself living as a highly respected and dashingly handsome drama professor at some American university? Or perhaps he would light up the stage every night, spouting grand lines and throwing exaggerated gestures out to an audience that craved his presence and screamed his name?

No matter what Louis becomes, there’s one thing that’s certain—he needs to take advantage of the opportunity before him. Even if he isn’t quite sure how. Or where to start. Or what any of this will actually lead to. Or what he _wants_ it to lead to.

Fuck.

It’s just as Louis is totally fed up by  his own thoughts _and_ the on-goings of outside—he’s seen too many drunken passerby and neither music nor focusing nor TV can drown the hubbub out—that Louis decides, breeze be damned, to close, lock, and cover his living room windows and pretend he’s in the middle of the desert.

He goes to the window with a surly expression, lamenting the time wasted after having read the same sentence at least seven minutes, and is just about to shut the window, hands placed on the wood, when a young man comes stumbling directly up to the window, impeccable suit glowing under a moonlit sky, the stench of smoke and alcohol permeating the air.

Louis blinks once, twice, three times as he stares at the young man before him.

It’s Zayn Malik.

He’s glassy eyed and slack jawed and he’s looking up at Louis with something like inquisitive wonder, a light sheen of sweat coating his face, loosening chunks of his pristine hair. He looks seemingly innocent—so much unlike the snake Louis had seen that first time he’d lain eyes on him.

Louis is completely taken aback, seemingly frozen.

They stare at each other, Louis’ hand poised near the window latch, Zayn loose limbed, arms hanging at his sides, blinking lazily with those incredible, endless eyelashes. It’s just as Zayn begins a soft smile, which Louis is instantly endeared by, that he suddenly grips the sides of Louis’ windowsill, and for one moment Louis actually thinks he may be climbing in to keep him company for the rest of the night, so he can sit quietly and smile at him like he hung the moon.

But instead, he throws his head over the windowsill and vomits all over Louis’ slipper-clad feet.

There’s a horrifying, stunned silence.

Louis is still as stone, hasn’t looked down, and only one sentence flits through his mind: _I’ve just been puked on by Zayn Malik_.

Zayn lifts his head, his eyes now red and watery, full of apology and child-like sorrow. Louis is torn between shutting the window on the boy’s head, inviting him in, or just running away to clean his fucking feet off.

It is a truly catastrophic moment. Because what the actual fuck??

But then suddenly, the good-natured looking boy he remembers from the teashop is at Zayn’s side almost instantly, eyes set in proper humility, light brown hair cropped cleanly, his features smoothed into apology. He places a supportive arm around Zayn’s shoulder, his other hand clasping Zayn’s bicep with gentle firmness, and as he holds a now staggering Zayn who is, quite obviously, too drunk to even function, the boy stands there and says in a very polite, crisp voice:

“My sincerest apologies, sir. You know how it goes. He’s not usually likes this, I assure you.”

Louis just stares, in shock—did he just call him _sir??_ —very much aware of the vomit that has begun seeping into the fabric of his slippers, and just nods dumbly, mouth totally agape and senses numb and stunned.

“It’s—fine,” he says, mostly through shock, and the boy immediately smiles, relieved.

He offers one last apologetic nod before ushering a nearly catatonic, dazed Zayn Malik away, disappearing just as quickly as they appeared.

And Louis just stares.

Because what the fuck??

He stares for about ten minutes before he finally screeches, flings his slippers off, and runs to the bathroom to bathe [repeatedly], stripping his clothes along the way and trying very hard not to think about his feet or the smell that has stained the air and will potentially never leave.

Fuck.

This.

School.

**

After Louis is nice and scrubbed and his feet have been soaking in bleach water, he emerges from the bathroom pink-cheeked and clad in the coziest clothes he possesses in hopes to cushion the emotional trauma. Because Louis Tomlinson has been _vomited_ on, and how does one move on from that experience? Part of him dies inside if he gets a bit of wee on himself—vomit’s in its own category entirely.

Thoughts back-and-forthing between “I hate Zayn fucking Malik” and “I am finding my inner peace,” Louis crawls in to bed, brings his textbooks with him, puts on the calming sounds of nature on his iPod, lights his candles, and shuts every curtain and door in the flat. He’s never opening the windows again.

Eventually, Louis achieves his inner peace, feeling snuggly and cozy as he does his homework, swaddled in blankets. He’s just beginning to wonder where Niall is when he begins drifting to sleep, book propped open, angry, revengeful doodles of Zayn Malik drawn into the margins. Because how had Louis thought he looked fucking innocent? The boy’s a puking machine.

It feels as if he’s only just shut his eyes when he is suddenly awoken by the sound of a door slamming, accompanied by a slew of laughter and shouted farewells coupled with some inside jokes.

Groaning with all the misery that is his life, Louis lifts his head off of the book, paper crusted to his face, thoroughly dazed and confused.

“Louis! Mate!” Niall’s voice calls through the void.

And no, Louis is not feeling sociable. All he can manage to process right now is that his light is still on and needs to be shut off if he’s going to fall back asleep—which he most certainly is going to do.

So Louis sits up, limbs groggy, rubbing his eyes, about to shut the light off, when he suddenly hears:

“What the fucking cunt is this pile of shite??”

And then Louis remembers.

He clears his throat, sleep-voice already set in. “You’re not looking at a pile of vomit by chance, are you?”

Without another word Niall comes into the room, eyes dilated, hair far more mussed than Louis had styled it to be, clothes hanging off of him in sweaty droops.

“What the—are you all right, mate? Are you ill?”

Louis groans, sinking his head as he rubs his hands over his face. He cannot comprehend this situation right now, doesn't even want to _touch_ on the topic of Zayn Malik and his regurgitation.

“Nope. How was the party, then?”

And luckily, Niall has the attention span of a goldfish.  

“It was fuckin’ incredible! It was at some hotel, there was this huge room, and it was the craziest thing I’ve ever been at! I mean, I knew they said it was good, but I was _not_ expecting that,” he laughs, leaning against the door frame with a dazed expression. He considers for a moment. “But, it’s funny though. Malik was nowhere to be seen. Bloke hosted a party and he wasn’t even there!” With that, he sits down on Louis’ bed and stretches out, all rosy cheeks and glazed skin as he put his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling with a contented grin, coming down from an adrenaline rush.

Louis peers over at him with an eyebrow raised. “Oh, I’m aware. Zayn Malik was most definitely not at your party.”

“Why do you say that?” Niall asks, craning his head.

“Well, he was here, don’t you know. He was scrambling around the school grounds, finding open windows of poor, innocent, studying students who were keeping to themselves, and puking into them.” And Louis gives Niall a pointed look.

Niall blinks for a moment before it clicks.

And then he shoots up in bed, bursting into manic cackling, disbelief written clear across his face like a caricature.

“That—in there—your fucking slippers—that’s because of Zayn Malik? He puked on your slippers? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking serious?” For some reason, Niall thinks this is the funniest thing to ever happen ever, so he proceeds to die of laughter on Louis’ bed, clutching his stomach like a child, giggling and gasping while Louis stares at him, very much unimpressed, eyes narrowed, his hair sticking to his cheeks.

Rude little bastard.

“Laugh it up, laugh it up. Very funny,” he says, tone unamused. “You’re going to clean it up, though. I’m not touching it. I’ve had enough puke on me for a lifetime.”

Niall, amidst his cackles of laughter and gasps, assures Louis, “I’ll have my assistant clean it up in the morning.”

Rory?

Louis feels quietly grateful but also very guilty.  It’s an odd feeling. “Well, I’ll have to send him a fruit basket or something,” he mumbles, flicking the light off before returning to the bed. He clicks on his bedside lamp. “Should I leave him a card? Money…?”

But Niall is busy laughing.

They spend the rest of the night lying side by side, Niall occasionally bursting into fits of laughter at the thought of Zayn Malik being sick on Louis and Louis efficiently changing the subject every time by asking more questions about Niall’s night. (“But how many shots did you have?” “Snog anyone?” “But how was the absinthe?” “You can’t have really been the only Irishman there.”)

Eventually, as the moon sits low in the sky and the flat fills with a peaceful calm, Niall begins drifting off mid-story, mouth hanging open, and mutters one last, “I still can’t believe Zayn Malik puked on your fucking feet,” before giggling himself to sleep.

And, as horrified as Louis is by his night (because who else would this happen to, honestly) he allows himself a small, amused smile as he closes his eyes as well.

**

Louis awakens in the morning to find that Niall has gone. In place of where the boy should be there’s a note on the bed with a pair of clean slippers (probably Niall’s own that he’s not worn once) that says, “Keep these away from Zayn Malik” with a large, sloppy smiley face drawn underneath, a scribbled pile of sick drawn in the corner.

Louis can clearly picture Niall making the note in his mind, that large, shit-eating grin taking up half his face, so he crumples up the paper with a roll of the eyes and tosses it in the bin across the room. He then slides out of bed thinking that he is very, very grateful for three things this morning:

  1. He actually studied last night.
  2. It’s Saturday so he has the day off.
  3. He had not woken up to the sound of piano.



Today is going to be a good day.

He yawns, stretching his limbs like a cat, and begins roaming around the house, feeling prim and beautiful and full of rest. And very sated. He goes to the kitchen immediately in hopes that there will miraculously be piles of fresh food waiting for him, but instead sees what Niall left him: a cold slab of bacon and a bag of weed.

He scoffs at it, grabs some juice and nibbles on a croissant as he sits by the window (which is now shut) (firmly). He looks to where his slippers had been when he’d last thrown them and takes in the now flawless sheen of the floor, polished and scrubbed, back to its immaculate luster. He really needs to write a card for Rory. Or write him in his will. Louis feels very, very grateful.

Suddenly his phone vibrates.

Niall.

_‘U up?’_

_‘Yeah.’_

_‘I’m having breakfast at Fleet’s. Join me. They’ve got endless bacon.’_

Louis doesn’t need to be told twice. He puts on the closest presentable clothes he can find, wraps a scarf around his neck, and exits the building with the thought of bacon, tea, and toast on his mind, all thoughts of Zayn Malik and vomit far, far away.

**

Upon their return, Rory is back in the apartment, holding Louis’ slippers. But that’s really the last thing Louis could give a fuck about right now in this room.

Because as soon as Niall and Louis stepped through the door, they were met with—possibly—the most unexpected sight either of them could have imaged.  

Their flat is filled—abso-fucking-lutely filled, top to bottom, no surface spared—with flowers.

_Flowers._

Every kind of flower in every kind of color, bushels and bundles everywhere. It’s essentially a hothouse, or maybe the Versailles gardens, and it’s really bewildering—even Niall is speechless, and Louis is almost tempted to film this phenomenon—and breathtakingly beautiful, yellow roses glowing in the light, lilies lying docile and rich, violets covering the piano, and hydrangeas sitting in neat vases along the lines of the floor.

As Louis and Niall stare, still silhouetted in the door with jaws dropped on the floor, their eyes simultaneously spot an exaggeratedly large cream card sitting on the mantle of the fireplace.

In large, fine writing, it states:

_“My apologies for last night._

_Please join me for luncheon._

_My rooms._

_Zayn Malik”_

Now stood before it, Niall and Louis read it aloud as one before both sets of eyes slide to Rory who is still standing with the shoes, looking slightly bewildered.

“Were you here…?” Louis starts, unable to form anything more coherent than that, but Rory’s eyes immediately snap to him, at full attention.

“Aye. Young gentleman came this morning, accompanied by a few others. Had all these specially delivered—said that he hoped they’d take away from any odor he may have caused. Something like that. Said to call upon him at any hour, said his rooms were up in the tower—the very top—and that he looks forward to your meeting,” Rory relates spotlessly, face businesslike as he shuffles from one suede foot to the next.

Louis stares, dumbfounded. Then looks immediately over to Niall.

“You’re coming with me.”

Niall’s hands shoot up in defense. “Nah, mate. This is your mess. You gotta deal with it. Besides, I’m hungover as fuck. I need to sleep. And I need to smoke.”

Louis just looks helplessly at him, adopting his most endearing set of puppy eyes. “But what am I going to do??”

“Just go. You’ll figure it out.”

Apparently Niall is immune to puppy eyes.

So Louis prepares to go to luncheon while Niall locks himself in his room and fills their flat with the sounds of Tchaikovsky and Bach (hangover music? The Irish are strange).  

After a full twenty minutes of panic and confusion over what to wear--something Louis usually has no trouble with, but he’s uncomfortable and angry and curious and nervous and, fuck, how do you dress when you’re attending an apology luncheon hosted by someone who’s been sick on you but you’ve never actually spoken to?--Louis begins surrendering to his inner panic.

Because where the fuck is he going? What the fuck is he doing? Why the fuck is he going? Who the fuck is he seeing? And when the fuck did he start caring what these people through of him?

Really, he should just wear a sweatsuit and slide on those same slippers that Zayn Malik has previously soiled. That’s what he should do.

But instead—and what have the times come to?—Louis bangs on Niall’s door.

“Oi!” he calls, “I need your help.”

No response, the music still drifting out of the room.

“NIALLER. I. NEED. HELP,” he yells, banging louder.

At this, he hears a grumble and some shuffling before the door creaks open.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Niall sighs, eyes red-rimmed.

“Yes it does. I need your help.”

“Fuck’s sake. Why me? You usually beg me _not_ to help. Or just plain refuse it.”

“Today’s different. I need your advice. What should I wear?”

“Are you joking?”

“…No?”

“You can’t dress yourself? You’re a grown fuckin’ man!”

“But your clothes are better than mine!” Louis whines, and Niall’s frown lessens.

“Oh. You want to borrow something?”

“No!” Louis immediately barks. He pauses. “Maybe.” His arms cross and Niall’s eyebrows raise. “Yes, fine, all right, I need to borrow something. But not because I want to!” Louis adds, jabbing his finger in Niall’s face.

Niall grabs the aforementioned finger and shoves it away gently. “Sure, sure, I know the drill. Now get in here, then. You should’ve just said so. Take what you like.”

And so the world ends when Louis asks Niall for fashion advice.

But, finally, he’s dressed to perfection (black knit jumper with his crisp, white color poking out and gray, form-fitting slacks, complimented by sleek black shoes that catch the light just so) and he stands before Niall, ready for judgment.

“Well?”

And _maybe_ Louis cares what he looks like just a bit because he was charmed by the flowers and the card and the apology, and _maybe_ he’s a little excited for this proper introduction, so he awaits Niall’s assessment with hope, glancing down at himself once more.

“Swell, mate,” Niall assures, and adjusts his collar as he brushes fake dirt off of his shoulders. “All ready to go, Cinderella. Give ‘em hell!” And with one last smack on the bum—“Hey!” Louis screeches with a glare—Niall waves a farewell and dissolves back into his room.

So, with one last intake of breath, Louis opens the door and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand now the shit's going to hit the fan. But yay, right??


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Harry Styles.

Louis has been climbing the steps of the tower, one by one, for what feels like forever. With each drag of the foot, his stomach sinks lower because what is he doing? Why is he even going? The only experiences Louis has had with this bloke was when he: A) Unjustly took what should have been Louis’ beverage at the teashop, and B) Emptied the contents of his stomach on him.

And when he looks at it like that, the idea of him even considering coming here seems ridiculous.

But here he is, dressed in his finest (or rather, Niall’s finest) and he’s finally reached the top, nerves jangling, fists shoved in his pockets. He’s met with an arched, old oak door stood ajar, sunlight streaming out in soft rays.

And fuck. Does he knock? Call out? It’s so much easier with Niall where he can just bang on the door and screech his name until he’s noticed. He’s not used to dealing with real people.

Feeling very unsure of everything in life, Louis places his hands against the cold wood and peers inside.

Before him is the most elaborate, ridiculously luxurious room he’s ever seen. It’s simultaneously ancient and contemporary (which is something Louis would have never been able to grasp previously, but somehow it works) and it’s sleek, chic, and fucking _posh_. It puts his own flat to shame which is something Louis has a hard time stomaching, to be honest.

Large, beautiful paintings of charcoal gray images splashed with violets, crimsons, and emeralds scatter the room, some on the walls and some resting on the floor, stacked one upon the other, waiting to be hung. Bookshelves stuffed with countless books line the walls, their sleek, leather spines glinting under the ambient shades of crystal lighting, and peppered on the walls are what appear to be first edition comic books, protected by thick glass as they hang, their worn pages sitting quietly. There are shiny sound systems and large clear glass windows and ebony throw rugs and crystal decanters and music stands and—is that a fucking piano? Seriously? Are these a requirement for the rich?

And amidst the lavishness of its surroundings, there rests a giant, narrow, rectangular wooden table filled with full cutlery and baskets overflowing with fruits, cheeses, wine bottles, and eggs. And in the middle, pouring wine into each glass, is the boy from last night with his thick eyebrows and calm features. In the corner, just beyond, is vomit-boy himself, reclined in a suede chair that looks crafted for a god, smoking a cigarette languidly.

Louis just stands there awkwardly, totally inside of the room, his hosts totally not noticing. Completely unaware of what to do, he just knocks on the door without ceremony, despite already having entered, and hopes for the best.

As one, they both look up.

While the boy with the short cropped hair smiles beatifically, Zayn Malik merely glances up and tilts his head to the side, only the barest smile touching the corner of his lips.

“I told you he’d come, Liam,” is all he says.

“Excellent!” Liam(?) exclaims, raising the half-empty wine bottle in celebration. “I didn’t think you would!”

Louis clears his throat, very aware that neither know his name despite him now knowing both of theirs. Should he introduce himself?

“Well, how could I not?” he settles for instead, a charming smile on his face. “It would have been rude not to, what with all of those lovely flowers you sent. Thanks, lads. You right chased the sick away.”

Liam laughs, politely and cleanly.

Zayn smirks, stubbing out his cigarette, and stands up.

“Liked them, did you?”

“Of course,” Louis says immediately, still not having moved from his spot at the door.

“Once again,” Liam begins, setting the now empty wine bottle down and facing Louis, “we just want to say a massive apology for the whole thing. Nothing like that has ever happened before, and we’re both so incredibly sorry about it.”

Louis nods, eyes instinctively sliding to Zayn.

“My apologies,” Zayn mutters, and his voice is soft like the night and seems to possess all the smoke that had just been filling his lungs. He walks towards Louis, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, but his eyes rest on Liam. He is the embodiment of cool and calm.

If Louis was easily intimidated, he would be making his escape. Lucky for him, he is completely unfazed. Mostly.

“Oh, but where are my manners?” Liam suddenly exclaims, clapping his hands together. Zayn regards him with a subtle fondness that Louis stashes away in his brain as he tries to suss out the dynamic at hand. “I’m Liam. And, as I’m sure you know, this is Zayn.”

Louis nods, extracting his hands reluctantly from his pockets as Liam makes to shake one.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he responds with a nod, and Liam’s face lights up.

“That’s a good name, isn’t it? ‘Tomlinson’… Is your family in law?” he asks, still gripping Louis.

“My dad is, yeah,” and Louis leaves it at that, extracting his hand.

He is not going to discuss Charles. And he is not going to play the game of 'Ooh, what does your father do? How much money does your family have?'

“Nice set up you’ve got here.” Louis effortlessly changes the subject, nodding at Zayn who is still watching Liam. “I thought mine was over the top. Guess I was wrong.”

“Over the top?” Liam asks quizzically, and Zayn’s eyes finally settle back on Louis.

Damn, he is strikingly beautiful.

“Well, yeah. Student housing doesn’t usually come with a piano, does it? Nor…any of this,” he says, gesturing toward the pristine novels and antique music stands.

“You don’t like it?” Zayn asks, and his voice is so soft and gentle that it’s almost cutting, startling Louis as they lock eyes.

“Not much. Do you?”

Liam blinks his surprise, and Louis wonders if Zayn Malik is used to being addressed like a normal human being. Or if he’s just petted and kissed all the livelong day.

Zayn shrugs. “It’s all right, I guess. Can’t complain, can I?”

“No, you really can’t. Bad manners ‘n that. So. When’s lunch?” And Louis takes the first seat he sees, on the right hand side at the head of the table.

At that, Liam and Zayn exchange a glance, but it appears amused, and neither protests the action, instead both sitting down as well, Zayn at the head, and Liam to his left.

“Can we get you anything?” Liam asks politely as he offers another cigarette to Zayn with the kind of practiced ease one only sees within a married couple of many years.

Glancing between the two and their synchronized touches, Louis can’t help but ask, “Whose rooms are these, again?” causing Liam to laugh.

“They’re Zayn’s. And mine, essentially. I’ve got my own, but I’m never there. I stay here for the most part.”

“Why?”

Zayn glances at Louis, another small smile threatening to reveal itself.

“I’m with Zayn,” Liam replies simply, and Louis can respect the straightforwardness of the statement. “Where are your rooms?”

Louis gives him a look. “Are you seriously asking me that? I can walk you back to the window if you like. Reenact the scene,” he says, and can’t quite keep the wry edge of his voice out as he looks over to Zayn.

But Zayn only smirks and says through a curtain of smoke, “You should have seen your face last night, mate.”

“I’m surprised you remember! I could’ve been a garden gnome for all you’dve known. You were utterly pissed.”

And that sparks a burst of surprised laughter from Liam. He almost immediately places his fingers over his lips, as if in a silent apology, but his eyes are still creased with delight as he stares across at Louis.

“You’re very outspoken,” he says, but it’s with glee rather than disdain, so Louis lifts his glass of wine, pops an eyebrow, and replies:

“It’s the best shade on me,” and takes a drink.

Giggling slightly, eyes planted on Louis, Liam mirrors the gesture, and Zayn full out grins.

“So then,” Louis says, licking his lips as he sets down the glass, “Are there going to be others at this luncheon?” He motions towards the spread of empty seats.

Like clockwork, the low rumble of voices begins drifting into the room, the click of heals against wooden steps echoing.

“Yeah,” Zayn replies unnecessarily, and his face is so flawlessly amused, staring openly at Louis like he’s a comedy sketch with his cigarette dangling between two fingers, that Louis almost wants to burst into laughter.

Because who are these people? And what are they made of?

Zayn is obviously made from smoke, wine, hair product, and the faded pages of a novel.

Liam is made of Hermes, polite conversation, teeth, and crystal.

Louis is probably made of bad breath, a short temper, and all the bacon he ate this morning.

At that moment, boys begin to pile into the room.

A slew of greetings are made, hands are shook, nods are exchanged, drinks poured, and eggs and cheeses plucked from the baskets. The guests all look generally the same—male, beautiful, clean-cut, suited in summer colors, and smelling of the best oils and aftershaves the modern world has to offer—and as they seat themselves, they each look to Louis but make no inquiry, too polite to question his presence, and treat him with all the quiet respect of one who assumes they’ve met before. One boy in particular, all ginger hair and sweet smiles (Edward, was it?) makes Louis feel at ease, laughing at all his jokes and topping off his wine regularly.

The other boys are enjoyable as well, and Louis slowly begins differentiating between them all; Matthew is a bit neurotic and blonde, George is aggressive and sporty, Philip is pretentious and a total hipster, and Lyle is the living embodiment of every Disney villain ever.

But Louis finds himself charmed.

Eventually, after having heard Liam referring to him as “Louis” enough times, the boys begin to catch on, and vice versa. And Louis can almost say he’s enjoying himself.

“Lads, lads,” he suddenly announces to the table, and the chatter and chuckles die down as everyone looks to him. “I feel it’s only appropriate to make a toast, yes?” There are a few scattered nods and even more bemused smiles. “Yes. So here’s to fucking up the first week of school, and, of course, to Zayn Malik and his incredible ineptitude at holding down his liquor.”

There’s a brief and stunned silence as all eyes flick to Zayn, and yes, Louis is absolutely sure now that nobody insults or takes the piss out of this boy. Actually, from what Louis has observed, they don’t interact with Zayn much at all. He just sits there, laughing at the odd joke, observing one and all on his throne, but he seems content out of the spotlight, enjoying the company of Liam and his cigarettes.

He also just looks bored as fuck.

So, without apology, Louis turns to grin at Zayn who is openly grinning back, lounging in his steep-backed wooden chair, limbs outstretched.

“Here, here,” Zayn smiles, raising his own glass. “And, of course, to our new friend Louis Tomlinson.”

Liam beams. “To Louis!”

As the men chorus his name as one, Louis rolls his eyes, makes an offhanded joke, and really wants to think that all of this is so shallow and so petty…but he finds himself secretly very pleased instead.

It’s just as they’ve all taken one collective gulp of wine—and this is the best wine Louis’ ever had, dear lord—when the door suddenly opens once more.

And it’s _another_ beautiful boy.

Louis really shouldn’t be surprised at this rate since this school is seemingly (miraculously) inhabited only by those whom the gods love.

This one is wearing a light gray suit, almost a timberwolf, with a salmon bow tie and a champagne colored scarf. His hair is one shiny, styled mess of chocolate mousse curls atop a china doll face, smoky green eyes set in ivory skin—ivory skin that contrasts alarmingly with poison red lips that are so perfectly shaped, Louis questions their authenticity.

The boys fall into a surprised silence, every pair of eyes fixing on the newcomer, including Zayn’s, as the entire room lights up. Everyone immediately pays attention to the boy, apparently delighted to see him.

And Louis can tell that this boy’s aware of it, can see it in the slow blink of his eyes and the focused calm of his movements, but he barely acknowledges the room. Without even a glance in their direction, the stranger begins unfurling the creamy satin scarf from around his neck, bejeweled fingers slowly picking at the intricate weave.

Eyes set on the task at hand, the boy says in a long, musically monotonous drawl:

“Hello, my little blossoms.”

His tone is smug and smirking, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing and what he’s saying. These boys are _his_ —they’re beautiful, and they’re _his_ collection.

And Louis is immediately rubbed the wrong way.

Because this boy, this clean, curly, brightly dressed, bow tied intruder who doesn’t even have the decency to make a proper greeting, still hasn’t acknowledged anyone, instead immediately going into his excuse for his lateness.

“I was detained in a meeting with a very…accommodating professor.” He says it with such smugness, his alarmingly red, picturesque lips leering.

It only serves to discomfort Louis further.

He averts his eyes away from those lips, those _wrong_ lips that are posed so perfectly, like they’re painted on a doll, void of any real emotion or life.  Instead, Louis just focuses on the steady movements of the boy as he picks at the complex knot of his cream satin scarf, his eyes still focused on himself as he talks in a low swooping voice.

“I told her I was going to be late and everything! Unfortunately, I was wearing my very fetching hat today—the beige one that I got when we went to Ibiza—so I can’t say I blame the poor thing. Just another spectator to life’s proudest illustration.” And his voice is so lilting and utterly mocking, the beginnings of a crooked half-smile forming, that Louis wonders if he can take himself seriously. Or if anybody in the room can.

But apparently they can, as they are all now chuckling their amusement, heartily agreeing in low tones.

What the actual fuck?

The nameless boy with the mocking smile immediately saunters towards an empty wine glass that’s sitting on the windowsill, abandoned. Smile still present, he pours himself a generous portion of Pinot Meunier. Amidst the continued silence, he takes a swig, _still_ without properly acknowledging the room, his back facing them.

And yet every single eye is still on him.

Including Louis’, who is glaring in distaste.

The boy knows the attention he’s receiving, seems to feel the control but doesn’t care. Where Zayn sits at the head of the table as the proclaimed leader but enjoys the solitude of sitting back in the shadows, this boy seems content in flaunting his self-appointed leadership, adoring the spotlight without really giving anything to his followers. It’s a role that he appears to relish and take the most ease with. Which officially makes him a first class wanker.

Louis watches, his eyes flitting between the group of men staring almost expectantly and the boy holding the stares and doing absolutely nothing with them.

Zayn peers over his wall of smoke, watching Harry’s movements, but says nothing.

Finally, at last, Harry acknowledges his host, perhaps feeling his smoky eyes on him, and turns around with a mischievous, delighted sort of smirk as he sets down his empty glass, immediately striding up to Zayn. He strokes his cheek with long, slender fingers that look the texture of pearls, and plucks the cigarette from between Zayn’s lips, bringing it to his own mouth as he breathes a greeting before pressing his lips serenely to Zayn’s.

Louis watches this interaction, this acknowledgment, glancing over to Liam (who expresses no discomfort or offense) before looking back to Zayn who appears wholly unaffected by the events at hand, amused if anything, staring back at the boy intently.

“Harry,” Zayn mutters in greeting.

“Harold. _Harold_ Styles,” he reminds, and Louis makes an immediate mental note to never call this boy “Harold.” Or do anything else that he requests. _Harry_ just sort of smiles and puffs on the cigarette, the smoke intertwining with his thick clusters of curls.

The boys begin to shout their greetings.

“Good to see you, mate!”

“Glad you could come!”

“We didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Thought it was odd you weren’t here, to be honest.”

Harry just nods in response, grinning—is that a fucking cherubic dimple?—and shaking a few hands, all without moving from his place at Zayn’s side, hand resting on his shoulder.

After a few more mumbled words to Zayn, Harry walks over to Liam and smooths his hand over his short brown hair before bringing it to the back of Liam’s head. He presses another kiss to Liam, this one with an exaggerated, silly “MWUAH!” at the end, the smoke of the cigarette still curling into the air as it dwindles down to his fingers, pressed at the back of Liam’s head.

Louis watches all of this while thinking two things:

  1. He wishes Niall was here to see this.
  2. What the fuck is wrong with this bloke?



Because as Louis watches this seemingly harmless exchange, he is irreparably alarmed by the emptiness that sits within the boy’s eyes as he looks over these people like they’re his toys, something like dead affection reverberating off of him. Because something is just so _wrong_ about Harry, and he can only feel disturbed by the creamy green eyes that hold nothing and the overly perfect mouth that expresses nothing and the frigidity of his overall demeanor, despite his languid movements.

And it’s that dimple, that childlike dimple, accompanied by the faux innocence and seemingly sweet charm and effortless, engaging demeanor which contrasts with something that Louis can’t quite place. But something is off about this boy, something is very, very wrong.

It leaves Louis very unsettled.

Harry turns around slowly after he disengages himself from Liam, walks back, and moves to where Louis is sitting. He pauses, more thoughtful and amused as he observes Louis—perhaps for the first time—his eyes raking up and down his body. It’s less sensual than it is assessing, and with that unnerving, false, crooked half-smile, he says, “Hello, blue eyes,” and ends the sentence in a blatant smirk. Which, to the outside world, is probably endearing, but to Louis is absolutely predatory and disgusting and makes him feel cheap, like he’s being bought with dirty money at a seedy club.

Harry tucks the end of his sentence in the cigarette, taking a deep pull, and blows the smoke out over Louis’ face, all the while keeping unblinking eye contact.

And Louis feels really fucking cheap and really fucking shitty. And really fucking unimpressed. He doesn’t respond, just instead keeps silent and returns the boy's stare with narrowed eyes.

As Harry waits, his expression turns amused and, appearing largely unaffected by all, just continues to stare. Continues to smoke.

Then Zayn mutters, “This is Louis. He’s new. I like him.”

Though he’ll never admit it, Louis’ stomach smiles at the accolade, but his face doesn’t betray him, his cold blue eyes still narrowed into slits as he stares down Harry.

“Oh, a new toy?” Harry inquires with enchantment, and he’s openly flirting, but Louis sees it as evil, asshole shittery.

So Louis says, “I’m nobody’s toy, thanks,” and takes a sip of wine.

Liam watches the display with wide eyes before glancing at Zayn who watches with something akin to intrigue.

But Harry is merely amused, unfazed as he shrugs, hand resting on the back of Louis’ chair. With smooth movements, he leans into him, stubbing out his cigarette and says in his velvety baritone, “That’s lovely, but you’re in my chair, darling.” His smirk grows. “I’d be happy to share, however.”

Louis grips the armrests for restraint. Because it would be rude to punch Harry in the face, especially at a luncheon where he’s the guest of honor.

So, keeping his cool and flicking a bit of hair out of his eyes, he paints the fakest grin imaginable onto his face and replies with, “I’m not one to share, Curly.”

Harry’s eyes momentarily darken. “It’s Harold.”

“I heard you the first time.”

Instantly, Harry removes himself.

“I don’t think he’s going to move,” Zayn says mildly, glancing up at Harry who is holding Louis’ stare.

And up close, in person, those eyes are even more terrifying. Where there should be emotion, soul, and intimacy, there instead lies a wall, cold and dark, barricading the boy from the rest of the world. And Louis can’t look away.

There’s a flicker of something more real—just for a moment—in the boy’s stare, but then it’s gone, suddenly and without warning, replaced with nonchalance.

Harry shrugs. “All right. I don’t mind standing. I'm not fussy.”

And it’s such a fucking lie that the room murmurs with laughter.

“He’s good, this Louis,” Edward says to Harry, smiling sweetly. “Funny.”

“Oh, you’re funny, then?” Harry says with fake delight, and Louis folds his arms.

“Massively. Could you top me off?” Louis asks Edward, motioning to the wine.

“I’ll do it,” Harry interrupts immediately, waggling his eyebrows, and Liam giggles. The traitor.

“I don’t think you could manage, to be quite honest,” Louis sing-songs without looking Harry’s way, and Zayn actually laughs.

Harry doesn’t reply immediately, instead selecting a cigar and clipping off the end.

“I can see why you like him, Zayn, darling," he says eventually, delicately. "He’s very pretty. And so small.”

Louis momentarily sees red (he hates being called short, abso-fucking-lutely hates it) and looks over to Harry, glaring.

“There’s no need to talk about me as if I’m not in the room, Curly.”

“Harold.”

“Who?”

Harry grins, pleased as he brings the cigar to his lips. “You’re _quite_ small. My, my.” He clicks his tongue. “Are you standing, then? Or—wait, you’re sitting down, actually, aren’t you?”

And it’s such a small tease, and he knows that Harry’s only saying it to get a rise out of him, but fuck, Louis has always been a victim to his temper, so he shoots up out of his chair.

“Would you like some cheese?” he asks forcefully, and fuck—where did that come from? He may or may not be flustered. 

He supposes he should feel lucky, seeing as how that could’ve gone much worse, but Harry’s grin widens, revealing a fine, pretty set of teeth that are absolutely predatory and surface-deep.

“You’re such an accommodating host, Louis Tomlinson.” It’s spoken with such exaggerated reverence that Louis nearly lunges.

“Your hair’s ugly,” Louis spits suddenly, and shit—he’s just reverted to childhood rage now, hasn’t he?

But apparently it was the right thing to say because the boys behind him gasp and Harry’s grin falters.

And there it is again, that flicker of indefinable _something._ But then, once more, it’s gone, the boredom back in place. And then he looks to Zayn.

“Have you gone rowing recently? Michael keeps asking to go but I can’t quite bring myself to care.”

Just like that, Harry’s attention has been placed elsewhere.

And while Louis is thankful—because he honestly might kill this bloke—it disgusts him even more. Because it only proves to show that Harry was playing with Louis like a mouse, decidedly working his charm on him with as little effort as he needed to in order to win himself another minion, only giving up when it became too trying of a task.

The rest of the luncheon is spent with Harry leaning over Louis’ chair, intermittently preening as he engages in fickle discussion with Zayn and Liam, and focusing on Louis, staring at him intently, deeply, and unnervingly. But not with any genuine interest; rather, it’s revolves around a bored desire to prove something.

So Louis ignores him completely.

Instead, he has as much fun as he can while engaging with the others, cracking jokes, taking the piss, and shouting exclamations as Liam stares across the table with delight, a faint glint of mischief in his eyes. Zayn is just as amused (in his own way), fingers wresting against his temple, leaned back in his chair in the most luxurious manner possible. He’s the spitting image of a king, and Louis decides that, if they end up being mates, he’s going to buy this boy a crown.

And, all the while, Harry stares at Louis. And Louis makes ridiculous jokes and ignores the boy in return.

Eventually, the boys begin to depart. Edward has music lessons, Philip has a meeting, Lyle’s bored, and George wants to see his girlfriend, and they slowly leave, one by one.

Pretty soon it’s just Louis, Zayn, Liam, and Harry (and Harry’s still standing beside Louis’ chair because he’s a stubborn fucker like that, keeps staring in amusement at a very irate Louis) and Louis decides that now is the perfect time to make his leave as well.

He gets up, smoothing over his shirt as he ignores Harry’s eyes, and goes to bid farewell to his host (who is now smoking by the window with Liam) because he genuinely did enjoy the company of the boys that weren’t empty shells of human beings. (Ahem.)

“Well, thanks again, mate. I had an incredible time, really. Best lunch I’ve ever had!” Louis says amiably, nodding his respect.

Zayn’s lips quirk upward in response while Liam grabs Louis’ phone from his hand and types in his number.

“You’ll text us whenever you’ve a moment, of course?” Liam suggests, tapping his numbers onto the screen. “And I’ve got your number as well now. So we can make plans.” He smiles wide, eyes happy and creased, as he hands Louis back his phone.

“Oh, yeah, for sure. Just let me know when you’re hanging about next. I’d be happy to join.”

Zayn , who is standing next to Liam, arm wrapped delicately around his waist, is staring past Louis' shoulder. Louis’ just about to turn and find the source of his lidded stare when suddenly Zayn says:

“Harry, you were just about to walk Louis out, weren’t you?”

And what did he just say?

Harry, grinning devilishly, immediately replies, “Of course.”

Louis suppresses the urge to smack Zayn across the room as it fills with unspoken tension.

“I can find my way on my own,” Louis says with weight in each word, giving Zayn a pointed look.

But he just shrugs and Liam looks to him. "Harry's got good navigation. Just in case." And Louis doesn't miss the impishness in Zayn's tone.

Because, fuck, is he trying to force them together?

Hell no.

“And good conversation,” Harry adds, reapplying his scarf as he strides toward Louis. “I’m very nice,” he says, but his inflection suggests anything but that, a posed smile in place.

He thinks he’s so fucking charming.

Louis stares, unimpressed. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Shall we?” Harry seamlessly asks without a beat, offering his arm.

And maybe it’s because Liam and Zayn are staring expectantly, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t have the energy to turn this into a thing, but Louis, with a heaving sigh and roll of the eyes, takes Harry’s arm.

**

They’re finally outside and Harry has successfully managed to sound like an even bigger wanker.

He’s talked about himself, his impeccable grades, his yearning for companionship, how nobody understands him (and his acting skills are shit, by the way, so he's not fooling anybody) and he’s even gone as far as to compared Louis’ eyes to a summer sky.

It’s cold, empty flattery, and though Harry probably feels that he’s successfully charming another conquest, Louis is keeping his vomit at bay.

“I want to show you the gardens,” Harry suddenly says, stopping and turning to Louis. “It’s my favorite spot in the world. You must come—they’ll inspire you, even in sleep.”

Even in sleep? What the fuck is he even talking about?

“I’m not really interested in gardens, but good effort,” Louis growls, removing his arm and taking a step back.  

Harry stares, and Louis thinks he may be slightly taken aback--which would be the first real emotion he’s seen on him. “But surely you’re just curious?”

“Not really, thanks. If I wanted to look at some flowers I’d do a Google search. I’m not really that fussed about it, to be honest.” With that, Louis shrugs and begins walking ahead of Harry, praying to the sweet baby Jesus that he won’t be followed.

“I’ll walk you back,” Harry calls, unsure, and thank fuck—he hasn’t actually tried to catch up.

“I can’t find one reason why that would be necessary, Curly.”

“Harold,” is the instinctive reply, and Harry is staring after him, mildly annoyed; Louis can practically feel him giving up on the project that is Louis Tomlinson. Because, nope, Louis is not a game and even if he was, he couldn’t be won. “I’ve only offered to be polite. Haven’t you any manners, Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis pauses, reluctantly turning back to face Harry who is exactly where he left him.

“I don’t need manners. I mean what I say and I say what I mean. I don’t fuss about appearing a certain way. Funny, living that way, isn’t it?” And without another word or look, Louis turns on his heel and walks away.

“Goodbye...?” he hears Harry call, almost inquisitively.

But Louis ignores him.

And Louis is so angry.

He’s not even sure why that brief encounter made him so genuinely mad, but it did.  It made him furious. It filled him renewed rage and bitterness and frustration and...fuck.

Louis may not know what he’s doing here, what he’s going to do with his life, or how he’s going to survive the rest of term, but Louis does know one thing:

Louis Tomlinson hates Harry Styles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaayyyy! This is the reason I've written this story. Because I listened to Lana Del Rey's "Young & Beautiful" and pictured this version of a warped Harry in a suit with a bowtie being an utter prick and yay! Because now Harry is finally in the story and now I can finally have fun with his character. 
> 
> Fun times, folks. Thanks for reading, you are all gems. <3


	7. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis Tomlinson is not having it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kept some family names in tact, so this is just a friendly reminder that these characters are in no way based off of their real life personas. I just like their names. :)

“Oh my GOD, that was the most insufferable human being I have ever encountered in my entire existence!”

Louis, still passionately irate, has just burst through the door to their flat, eyes seeking Niall instantly.

He’s on the couch, limbs outstretched with one arm on the back of the sofa, discarded crisp bags everywhere, empty beer bottles at his feet, and clad in track pants and an American basketball jersey as he looks up from his laptop, tellie blaring whatever footie match he’s currently half-watching.

“That bad, eh?”

“Oh, it was WORSE,” Louis exclaims, kicking off his shoes and ripping off his jumper. “I did not know people like that actually existed. I mean—I can’t believe we’re the same species. I can’t believe we’re made of the same stuff—surely there’s a computer chip in him somewhere because that is not a human being, Niall, no, that is a robotic monster with no sense of decency or feelings of any nature!” He’s out of breath from his exuberant tirade, and he stares at Niall wildly, trousers half-done.

Niall’s eyebrows shoot into the air, pausing before he brings a bottle of beer to his lips while Louis storms into his room.

“Really? He always seemed all right to me.”

“All right?? ALL RIGHT??! Niall, have you any brains in that blonde, liquored head of yours?? Has your silver-spooned upbringing clouded your sense of judgment that severely??” Louis splutters, pausing his actions of stuffing on an oversized vest (which might also be Niall’s, he can’t remember).

The rest of the beer is finished in one gulp. “Nah, I don’t think so. I’ve got pretty good judgment. I’m starving—dinner soon?”

But Louis ignores him, his face flushed with all the fury of a thousand suns.

“Niall, I’m going to set him on fire! I am! Honestly, I’m not even sure how I’m going to manage existing around this wanking, piece of shit, ponce-assed, fucking—“

“Whoah, whoah,” Niall interrupts, holding up his hands in what Louis assumes is supposed to be a soothing action. “He can’t be as bad as you say. You’ve only been gone for a few hours!”

“A few hours too many, let me tell you!”

“Well, what happened? What did he say?”

“What did he say? WHAT DID HE SAY?? He said everything! He talked about himself, he talked about his conquests, he talked about his money and his—“

“He talked that much?” Niall blinks, standing up and making his way to Louis (who is now sitting at the table with his fists clenched). “He always seemed so quiet.”

“Is that a joke? You trying to be funny again? No, he’s not fucking quiet. He yaps and yaps and yaps like a little curly fucking…poodle,” Louis finishes with angered triumph, and he glares his frustration at Niall for good measure, thumping the table.

“Zayn? Zayn Malik. Zayn Malik yaps like a poodle,” Niall reconfirms as he leans over the table across from Louis, arms braced.

Louis starts. “Who—what—Zayn? No. No! God, Niall, no, not fucking Zayn Malik! He’s all right, seems like a good enough lad. No, Harry Styles! And, oh God”—Louis brings his hand up to his mouth—“I can’t even say the name. I’m going to be sick from just the sound.”

“Oh, Harry?” Niall says, surprised. He stares at Louis for a moment before a small laugh escapes him, his features set in sunny amusement. “Yeah, I figured he’d be there. You don’t like him?”

Louis stares. “Is that a fucking joke?”

Niall grins. “But everybody likes Harry Styles,” he mocks, and thumps down into the chair opposite Louis.

“Yes, well, then everybody has a personality disorder. Niall,” Louis says, eyes wide with distress as he touches his chest, “I sincerely think he’s evil. There is something seriously wrong with him. He’s cruel, heartless, cold—“

“Those are not words I have ever heard used to describe Harry Styles,” Niall interrupts, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure you’re talking about the right guy?”

“Oh, I’m sure. Harry, ‘Harold,’ Styles, right? He’s not right, mate. When he spoke it was like he was reading lines from a playbook. He said what everyone wanted him to say without meaning a word of it. He acted like he was the life of the party, like everybody wants him—“

“That’s probably true though, mate.”

“I don’t care if that’s true. Which, if that’s true— _if_ that’s true—I refuse to believe that that’s true—what kind of world do we live in?!” Louis’ aware that he’s close to shouting, but he doesn’t care, his cheeks flushed and hair wilting as he bangs fists on the table.

Niall chuckles at his indignation. “Well, he’s definitely a bit off. I mean, I’ve never had a problem with him myself—he’s always shown me a good fuckin’ time. But there is something I don’t trust about him.”

“To put it lightly,” Louis mutters darkly before bursting into humorless laughter. “I’m dead serious, mate. I may just actually rip his head off if I see him again.”

“Calm down!” Niall laughs, leaning across the table to clap Louis on the back. “You don’t have to see him again if you don’t want to! It’ll be fine!”

“True. This is true. That is true, and that is comforting.”

Niall nods and promptly stands up. “’M starved. Want some cake?” he asks, making his way towards the fridge.

“Nah, you go ahead,” Louis says absently, bringing a hand to his flushed cheek.

A few beats pass—filled only by the sound of Niall rummaging for a fork as he reveals the pristine chocolate cake from its cardboard box—and Louis really, really doesn’t want to keep talking about Harry Styles.

But.

“So, what’s his story, then?” he asks, and refuses to chastise himself for a curiosity that can’t be tamed. Then again. “Actually, you know what? I take it back. Never mind. I don’t want to hear it. You know why? Because I want no knowledge about anything having to do with Harry Styles. If there is some kind of information that is privy to only those who know Harry Styles, then I want none of it. Because I literally want to forget that he exists. Starting now.”

Niall laughs, mouth full of chocolate cake, walking around with it as if it were a single portion and lightly tapping his feet in a jig. (Jolly. That’s the best word to describe Niall Horan. Jolly.)

“Well,” he swallows, “He’s actually the son of Des Styles. Obviously.”

But what? No. No, that is not obvious.

“Des Styles?” A pause. “As in…the famous bloke? The one from Crue? The one who sang ‘Nine Dreams'?” 

“Yeah.”

“The guy from all the mag covers? Who broke records? And was all over the TV and the radio and everywhere in between? The one who wins the ‘Top Rock Groups From the 90’s’ countdowns? Every time?”

Louis is really trying to keep his cool right now, because of fucking COURSE Harry Styles is the son of one of his favorite bands.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“From ‘Crue’?” Louis reaffirms.

“Still yes.”

It takes a moment to process this information.

He looks up, Niall now downing a glass of either water or vodka before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. And Louis’ brain is scrambling.

“But isn’t that guy mental?”

“Oh yeah. He’s a right fuckin’ mess, it’s pretty bad. Me dad said he’s impossible to work with. He doesn’t even know where he is half the time, and if he does, you don’t know which side of him is going to show up, you know?”

Louis swallows, because shit, that’s pretty intense, before Niall takes another gulp from his refilled glass and ponders, lips wet.

“You know, I’m not even sure if he’s living at home right now, actually. He might be institutionalized.”

“Institutionalized?” Louis repeats, shocked. “What, for drugs or…?”

“No, I think he’s clean now. I think. Me dad was never really sure, to be honest. But no, he goes through these breakdowns every now and then. Hospital sets him up then he’s all right to go back home.”

“So he’s a nutter.”

“That’s an understatement.”

 Louis nods, more to himself than anything, and clears his throat, refusing to think about the implications of the situation and how it relates to Harry. So he stands up and walks over to Niall, head held high.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat and grabbing the tumbler out of Niall’s hand, “I’m sure Harry isn’t even aware of the situation. I’m not quite sure he realizes that anybody else exists in the world.” He takes a drink and—oh, yep. Vodka. He winces as he struggles to swallow while Niall watches in amusement.

“You may have a point there. He didn’t seem too fussed when his mum died.”

 “…His mum died?”

“Well, one of them. I’m not sure if she was his real mum or not. He’s had a few.”

Good lord.

“How did she die?”

Niall shrugs. “Nobody knows. It was pretty hushed up, so it could’ve been an overdose or some shite.”

Some shite? Louis feels a little sick.

“It probably was drugs. Seeing that his sister’s a bit of an addict herself.”

This is just getting worse.

“He has a sister?”

“Yeah. She’s a big time model. Gemma Styles? Never heard of her?”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m not really…into models. Well. Female ones.”

Niall smirks. “Well, she’s fit. But a fuckin’ mess. Raised Harry until he could take care of himself, then she was out of there.”

“And this was after their mum died?”

“Yep.” Niall reflects for a moment, clear blue eyes cutting through the shadow of the room. “Yeah, no, I remember when their mum passed. Harry didn’t seem too upset about it.”

And Louis starts at that because—what??

“He didn’t seem too upset when his own mum died??” Louis repeats, perplexed. “What the fuck? What am I dealing with? Is this a monster? Is this an actual monster? I feel like I’m Little Red Riding Hood and I’ve just encountered the big, bad fucking wolf.”

Niall rolls his eyes, but his smile is wide. “You’re going to be fine. Harry’s all right. Maybe he’s not all there, but he’s not dangerous or anything. Besides, you don’t even have to see him ever again.”

“Well. Not necessarily. I actually quite like Zayn and Liam,” Louis explains thoughtfully. “The other lads were good, too. It was just Harry that set my teeth on edge. If they offered, I’d be happy to hang about again.” He heaves a sigh, dropping his head onto Niall’s shoulder. “What should I do? They seem like good friends, so I doubt I’ll be able to completely avoid him.”

“Oh, they’re definitely good friends. Zayn and Harry used to be step-brothers.”

And the plot thickens.

“What?” Louis asks, his head shooting back up.

“I told you that already.”

“No you did not!”

“When you asked about Zayn—I told you his mum married Des Styles for a bit.”

“Well I wasn’t listening. How did that happen? Mira is too classy of a woman to sign up for that mess!” And no, Louis doesn’t actually know her, but he’s seen all of her movies and that’s the next best thing to a personal relationship.

Niall shrugs. “Dunno. It didn’t last very long. Two years, tops.”

“Shit. I suppose they’re pretty close, then. Seeing that they’re essentially brothers. Or ex-brothers. Or whatever. Fuck.” Louis’ head drops back onto Niall’s shoulder, closing his eyes in despair. “What’s worse is that Zayn was actually pushing us together.”

Niall’s shoulder stiffens ever so slightly. “Really?” And he does not sound impressed.

“Yeah. I think he thought it was funny or something. Are these people bad seeds?”

“All I know,” Niall says, but his voice has already returned to its normal joviality, “is that Zayn’s a good bloke. He’s rich and powerful as fuck and his father’s a cunt, but he’s good. Liam Payne—“

“Oh, is that his last name?”

“Yeah. He’s Zayn’s boy and a good enough bloke as well. Not too sure if I trust him all that much, though.”

At this, Louis is genuinely startled. “What? Why? He seemed so kind and welcoming. He was the nicest person there.”

“No particular reason. He’s just a bit of a wild animal.”

“A wild animal," Louis repeats flatly. "Are we talking about the same person? He was like a bloody houseplant!”

“I’m not saying he’s like Harry Styles. But he’s definitely a big partier. And he knows what people want to hear.”

“He’s phony?”

“No, I don’t think he’s phony. I think he’s a nice guy but I also think he knows how to play people. He’s smart. Extremely well-bred, as you’d say. Just keep that in mind, all right?”

“All right,” Louis agrees, watching Niall. “And Zayn, too? Should I watch out for him as well?”

“Nah. Unless you feel like you need to. But.” Niall pauses. “Just, watch out for Harry especially.”

Louis’ head might actually be spinning in circles. Too many warnings. Too much new information.

“I thought you said he was this great guy that everybody loved. And that he wasn’t dangerous,” he says, on the verge of exasperation.

“He’s not. But. He’s not right in the head, I don’t think.”

“I could’ve assumed that much.” Louis watches as Niall chews on his lip, surprised by the boy’s sudden solemnity. “Do you have a specific reason why you’re saying this?”

“No, nothing specific. But I’ve seen him during some dark moments. And he fucks everything that walks, as well, so don’t let him take advantage of you.” Niall gives him a hard look, tone protective, hand firmly planted  on the counter.

Louis grins despite himself. Because he now realizes that Niall is clearly being a mother hen. And since his own mother (who hasn’t called since Louis left her that voicemail reminding her to focus on his sisters and not him) never really gave helpful advice, Louis feels rather touched.

“Awwww, Nialler!” Louis teases, pinching his cheeks. “You’re starting to be all protective of me like a mum!”

“Fuck off,” Niall laughs, but doesn’t deny anything.

“Well. I appreciate it, mate,” Louis says more seriously with a grin that he hopes displays as much. “But next time they invite me to something, you’re coming with me.”

“Sorry. Not my crowd. Too pretentious and…weird. They have tea parties and play croquet and talk about the theatre and…no. I’ve had enough of that growing up.”

“Hm, yes, well, you’re still coming. Now. Let’s play FIFA before you take me out to dinner, all right? Loser gives Rory a piggyback all the way home from the pub.”

“Better rest your back then, Tommo.”

“Not a chance, Nialler,” Louis counters, and doesn’t even flinch at the nickname.

**

Two hours later, Louis’ phone buzzes with a text and his social life has become so monopolized by Niall at this stage in his life that that really is a momentous occasion.

“Who is it?” Niall asks absently, focusing on the game at hand.

Louis drops the controller and brings his phone up to his face. “It’s Liam,” he says with surprise. He mumbles through the text, eyes darting across the screen.

_‘Mate! It was so good to meet you yesterday! Had an absolutely incredible time. There’s going to be a party tomorrow at The Priory Hotel. We would love you to come. :)’_

_‘Sounds incredible. U hosting ?’_

_‘Harry is’_

“Ah,” Louis voices, and Niall looks over.

“What?”

_‘Text me the details and I’ll see you then.’_

_‘Excellent!’_

“Niaaaalllll!” Louis suddenly wails, falling face down into the couch. “I’m upset,” he mutters, voiced muffled in the cushions.

“Why are you upset?” comes the immediate response. And, okay, Louis can admit that Niall has the patience of a saint. 

“Because I’ve just been invited to a party hosted by Harry and I hate Harry and I might end up committing homicide at a nice party and thus jeopardize my entire future, well-being, and crime record.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic! I’m sincere and heartfelt and I express myself,” he snaps, lifting his face. “If that’s wrong then I don’t want to be right!”

“I see. Well. Good luck with tha—“

“Please come.”

“No.” It's spoken without a seconds' thought.

“Oh come on!” Louis exclaims, sitting up and climbing toward Niall. “They’d like you! You’re rich like them! And you get along with everybody, even that stuffy old hag who throws me nasty glances when we check our mail. It’ll be fun!”

“I like Mary.” At Louis’ pointed glare, Niall sighs, setting down his controller. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, well then I actually can’t. Honestly. I’ve got the rowing team tomorrow.”

“You’ve joined the rowing team?”

“Yeah, I dunno. I’m just testing out how I like it. Gives me something to do.”

“What do you mean it gives you something to do? Am I chopped liver? Are you going to be at practice all the time now while I’m at home, alone and bored?” Louis nearly screeches, hand splayed over his heart. He might be a touch offended. But if he were asked, he'd deny it. 

“You’ve got your new friends. You'll be fine.”

“Be that as it may, I really don’t appreciate just being abandoned. I’m not one of those people who finds new friends and ditches their old friends.”

A Cheshire-cat grin spreads immediately upon Niall's lips, eyes caught in a glint. “You just said we’re friends,” he smirks, pointing an accusatory finger.

Fuck.

“No I did not,” Louis immediately responds, looking away as if struck. “You misconstrued my sentence. I meant…" He struggles for words momentarily, before finally settling with a," Shut up, Niall. I was just saying that you should come to the party and not join the rowing team because everybody on it is a prat.”

“I’ll go next time, all right?”

“But I can’t go alone! I need somebody to talk to! I need somebody to cry with!”

“Yeah, no, I'm definitely not going then," he chuckles.

“Come on! Please? Please??”

“I promise next time I’ll go. I promise,” Niall says with as much sincerity as he’s allowed, before averting his eyes back to the TV screen, controller back in hand.

“All right. Fine. That’s fine. I understand. I’m going to text you the whole time and send you pictures of my tears, but it’ll be fine.”

“It’ll be fine,” Niall agrees.

**

When Sunday arrives, Louis still hasn’t heard from Liam.

“He was obviously just texting me to be polite. You were right all along, Niall. He’s a swindler. A right phony. With no moral fiber whatsoever.”

He’s currently pacing around the flat, only breaking his stride to occasionally jump on Niall (who is lying on the floor, strumming his guitar and burping the lyrics to “Danny Boy”) and scream panicked obscenities in his face.

Which he does now.

“IT’S ONLY THE FIRST WEEK AND I’VE ALREADY BEEN REJECTED!!” he screeches, pouncing on Niall and grabbing his face between his hands.

Niall blinks up at him between squished cheeks, the guitar uttering a sad twang at the impact. “You can come rowing with me?”

Louis releases Niall’s face and glares down at him. “Honestly, Niall, sometimes I wonder if you just speak to hear your voice. NO, I WILL NOT GO ROWING WITH YOU.” He sniffs and disengages himself from the boy. “I have more class than that.”

“So what will you end up doing?”

“My studies. I am going to excel in all my courses and will become so supremely intelligent that I won’t need any friends.”

“What about me?”

“You don’t count, you’re Irish.”

Niall bursts into laughter. “You are such a fuckin’ cunt,” he says, but there’s enough fondness in his voice that Louis lets it go.

“But you’re not honestly gonna go rowing now, are you? When I’m home all alone?” Louis pouts as he sits next to Niall on the floor, cross legged, hands neatly folded in his lap like a good boy.

Niall sighs a chuckle as he sets aside the guitar and sits up. “Well—“

And, luck be there, Louis’ phone vibrates at that exact moment.

Niall lunges for it before Louis can. “It’s from Liam!” he laughs as he holds it in the air as Louis struggles to grab it.

“What does it say? Is it a rejection? He’s probably just jealous cuz Zayn fancies me!”

“Zayn fancies you?” Niall laughs, surprised, as he continues to keep the phone out of the realm of Louis’ arm span.

“Yes! Maybe! Probably!”

With a shake of the head, Niall unlocks the text. “Party in an hour at Priory Hotel. Bring swimming trunks. See you there!” he reads, before tossing the phone to a grasping Louis. He nods in approval. “That’s a nice place. You’ll have fun.”

But Louis is still getting over the bit about swimming trunks. “Is there a pool there?”

“Yeah. A damn good one, too.”

“Shit. I haven’t exercised in ages. And I’m pale as the moon! I can’t just put my body on display when I’ve such little time to prepare! I’m not going,” Louis says, setting down his phone with steely determination and resolutely ignoring Niall’s rolling of the eyes.

“Don’t be a cunt, just go. It’ll be fun. Besides, you can’t be paler than Harry.”

“Oh, but fuck. He’s going to be such a piss ant about all this, isn't he? He probably won’t even let me in.The prat.”

“If the boys are inviting you, then you’ll be allowed. Now calm the fuck down and get ready. I gotta go soon.” Niall whips out his own phone and begins tapping out a text. “I’m having Rory pick up a few things for me. Do you need swimming trunks?”

“I’m not having Rory buy me swimming trunks.”

“He won’t. I’ll buy them.”

“I don’t need your money!” Louis immediately spits like a baby kitten. “I’m not a charity case. I can afford—“

“Right, I’m telling him to pick you up some,” he interrupts seamlessly. “Black?”

“I refuse to be part of this.”

“Nah, blue. It’ll bring out your eyes more,” Niall says conversationally as if he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. Those are big words coming from a boy who’s currently wearing an over-sized t-shirt with the words “Crazy Mofos” scribbled onto it.

But Louis can’t help but smile. “You’re such a good lad. Noticing my eyes ‘n all.” And he throws forth a wink because he can.

“You talk about your eyes all the time, Lou. Every day since I’ve met you you’ve told me that you like to wear blue because it brings out your eyes.”

Oh. Yeah.

“Shut up.”

And before Niall can respond, Louis jumps up and blows a raspberry on the back of his neck before prancing away.

“Ya cunt!” is all Louis hears as he shuts the door of his bedroom and begins assembling himself for the party.

**

Niall promises to leave only after Louis becomes reassured (repeatedly) that he looks good—good in the sense that he appears naturally disheveled and not like he’s been working on himself for the past hour.

He’s playing the piano again, crafting songs to mock Louis under melodies that sound like nursery tunes. (“ _Louis, your hair looks fine, Louis, stop wasting your time” “Louis is a boy, Louis’ not a girl. But if he was, he’d be the prettiest in the world” “Don’t be such a cunt, don’t be such a nut, relax your-fucking-self and roll up a blunt”_ ) He's really clever. Just so extremely clever. Louis is so impressed. (That's a lie.)

Eventually Rory arrives, delivers several bags with “Ralph Lauren” branded onto them over to Niall, before handing a smaller one to Louis.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Louis says, a little sheepishly.

Rory merely winks. “It’s my job, son. No worries. But I made sure to get you the best they had to offer.”

Oh, great.

“Thanks, mate," Louis mutters, inspecting the bag hesitantly. He glances up, catches the older man's eye. "But I will poison you if you’ve set me up for disaster. I’m trained in potions.”

But Rory only smiles before asking Niall if he needs anything else.

“Tell Nelson I’ll be ready in a minute!”

And then Rory exits.

“Nelson? It’s not that far of a walk, man. You’re getting spoiled,” Louis berates, slowly emptying the contents of his bag. And, oh. They’re not bad at all! They’re actually quite nice. “Your boy did good!” he calls, holding the trunks up to himself. “I might just win best dressed.”

“Let’s hope so,” Niall says, tumbling out of his room in freshly purchased sporting clothes, price tag still on his vermilion polo. Which looks ridiculous.

“Come here, you knob,” Louis says, shaking his head before unpinning it from the collar. He gives him a final once over. “There. Good and proper. Off you go, then.”

“Good luck at the party,” Niall grins, mussing up Louis’ hair. “Show him who’s best!”

“I will. FYI, I’m going to be texting you the entire time.”

With one last shake of the head, Niall leaves.

So.

It’s Louis vs. Party right now.

Game. On.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of those boring, necessary chapters. Le sigh.


	8. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Styles hosts a party. Judgment ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up a lot of Harry's tattoos because this is AU! Some are based off reality, but most aren't. Because, well...I could go into it but that would be dull. So, I'm aware that he doesn't have the described tattoos. I'm just painting a picture.

Louis arrives to the party forty-five minutes late, his brand new—and very fetching, he must say—trunks underneath his jeans, wearing Niall’s white polo which he grabbed last minute. (What can he say? The boy’s got some good clothes. They’re few and far between, but they do exist.) He’s in the right place—he said Harry’s name at the front desk and they seemed to know what he was talking about—and it’s absolutely gorgeous inside, even if he doesn’t recognize a soul.

The pool is indoors, surrounded by crystal clear glass windows that arch and reach to the sky. The walls are limitless and cream colored, the pool is vast and sparkling, and beautiful vines with brightly colored flowers paint the corners of the room, perfuming the chlorine scented air.

It reeks of wealth and over-indulgence.

Sure, it’s lovely. But it's also wasteful and Louis feels really fucking out of place with his Tom’s and judgmental eyes.

Girls and boys wearing their finest swimwear, holding cocktail glasses, tumblers of rum, and champagne flutes, screech and squeal as they splash each other in the pool, making Vines on their iPhones and posing for Instagram pics.

Louis sort of wants to set them all on fire. And damn, they’d light up fast with all that liquor strewn about.

Near the pool is a fountain, possibly crafted by giants, spewing out what looks to be pastel pink water. Which—why the fuck? And, oh yes, there are people in there, too. They’re splashing and spewing up tinkling laughter and drunkenly balancing on the edge in heels and…appear to be drinking it. All right, then. So there's that.

“If that’s a fountain of champagne, I swear to god,” Louis mumbles under his breath.

But the scene only gets worse.

Because just as Louis is on the verge of considering walking out (there are _servers_ swooping around with caviar smeared on crackers and there’s an entire room dedicated to smoking cigars and watching a footie game—come the fuck on now) Louis spots Harry Styles.

With a fucking falcon on his arm.

Because, yes, Harry Styles has a fucking _falcon_. He's got the protective arm sleeve and everything. On top of that, he’s adorned in a pink suit and gray satin bowtie. At a pool party.

What the actual fuck?

“Louis!” a voice suddenly exclaims from behind, and oh, praise the heavens, it’s Liam, wearing tiny black trunks (nice abs, Liam, ten points to Gryffindor) and holding a champagne glass. Zayn is at his side in a white button up rolled to his elbows and light brown slacks, fedora in place. “There you are! I’m so glad you’ve come!”

“Why do you always think I’m not going to come?” Louis asks, shaking his hand, then Zayn’s.

Liam shrugs. “I suppose it's because I’m not sure if I would go to all these strange gatherings hosted by strange people I barely even know.”

“Well. I like strange people and I like strange gatherings even more,” Louis grins impishly, and Liam laughs his approval as Zayn smirks. “But what exactly is happening right now?”

“How do you mean?” Liam asks, puzzled.

“Well, I come here and Harry Styles has a bird on his arm," Louis says, he hopes not too unkindly. "What is that…about?” He's playing nice.

Zayn laughs out loud and it’s quite a marvelous laugh, soft and pleased, and Louis can’t help but feel a tiny bit proud of himself. From what he’s gathered, Zayn is a bit of a stoic character and any chance to see that genuine smile—which is gorgeous, in all honesty—is appreciated.

“He just got him,” Liam says, smiling. “He’s so cute. Would you like to pet him?”

Louis stares.

“Is nobody seeing the issue in this?" he plows on, quirking an incredulous brow. "That he’s currently in possession of a bird of prey? I’m almost certain that’s against the law.”

“No, no. I’m actually good friends with the president of PETA, so he should be fine," Liam smiles effortlessly. He belongs in a toothpaste commercial. 

Louis continues to stare. “You’re good friends with the president?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Naturally." His tone is flat. "That makes sense.”

“He’s a wonderful man.”

“All right.”

Zayn smirks. “Liam’s friends with everyone over forty.”

“I am not!”

“Yes you are. You can’t help it, love.” Zayn’s eyes slide to Louis. “But don’t worry about the bird. I’ll make sure he’s given a proper home.”

Louis smiles at that and nods, genuinely surprised. Wasn’t Zayn supposed to be this terrifying force of beauty and power? For the most part he seems like a gentle soul, mild mannered and observant. He also has a brain.

Then again, Louis still doesn’t really know the boy at all.

But, no matter, because Louis currently has far more pressing issues at hand.

“Fuck, he’s coming over,” Louis breathes, watching as Harry spots them and begins sauntering forward, falcon in tow. A sentence Louis had never thought he would say in his life.

“Louis Tomlinson,” a deep, husky voice purrs, and the words spread over the trio like molasses, catching under Louis’ nails and clogging his ears. “Hi,” he greets cheekily, dragging out the word in lilting tones. All the while as the beady eyes of the falcon peer nervously into Louis’ soul.

“Hello,” Louis greets distastefully, and gives the bird a once over.

“Lads,” Harry nods to Liam and Zayn, before returning his cutting stare back to Louis, his fake, toothy grin in place. “And how are you this afternoon?”

“You know what, I would be a lot better if you didn’t have an endangered species sat on your arm.”

“They’re not endangered anymore. His species is well on its way to recovery.”

“Even so, you’ve still got a fucking bird sitting on you.”

“Cleopatrick.”

“Sorry?”

“His name is Cleopatrick,” Harry clarifies, and his grin is so wide and goofy, Louis could almost believe it to be genuine if it weren’t for the emptiness in his gaze.

“Cleopatrick? Are you serious?” Louis deadpans, staring him--and Cleo-fucking-patrick--straight in the eye.

“He’s thought of worse names,” Zayn says mildly with a bemused smile, hand on Liam’s back.

“He named a cactus ‘Chlamydia’ one time,” Liam explains, and Harry’s grin widens, teeth glinting under the rays of sunlight streaming through the skylights.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he says softly, turning to stroke Cleopatrick on the head. Its wide, black eyes blink momentarily in contentment, apparently accustomed to human touch, and it almost actually looks to be enjoying the caress.

Even so, it’s a fucked up situation, so Louis just glares. “It’s still a ridiculous name.”

“Really? I quite like it,” Harry says absentmindedly, still stroking the bird. And fuck, does it take him all day to carry on a full conversation? Each word is said so painfully slow, Louis could run verbal laps around the git. “A girl over there named him.”

“So you just agreed straight away and named it _that?_ You couldn’t have taken any more suggestions?”

Liam giggles, and Zayn smirks.

“Well. She actually wanted me to name him ‘Barney.’ But I didn’t like it, so I named him ‘Cleopatrick.’ But it was because of her I named him. You know?”

“So _you_ named the bird.”

“Correct, Louis Tomlinson.”

And Louis decides that he hates the way Harry says his name, all slow, rumbling, and flowing like a thunderstorm. Or crushed velvet. It’s not appealing at all, not in the slightest. It's fucking...irksome. It's an irksome sound.

“So. Tell me. Why on earth did you buy the poor damn thing in the first place?” Louis then asks, cutting off Liam who was beginning to inquire about the whereabouts of the loo. Too bad.

Harry, also failing to acknowledge Liam (who’s now full-on pouting to Zayn), merely says, setting his cold, green eyes back on Louis, “I liked him. It’s my new thing. Do you like birds?”

“I do not like birds. They shit everywhere, they fly at your head, they’re not very cute, and I don’t trust their eyes. They’re very penetrating.”

At that, Harry’s lips twitch, almost as if to laugh, before smoothing back out to the wide, unnerving grin. “Best stay away from Cleopatrick, then. His eyes are extra penetrating,” he says with a slow blink of his own eyes. Of course he manages to make it creepy.

Louis narrows his eyes at the words, already feeling his muscles tense in agitation. “I assure you that I'll have no problem staying away from Cleopatrick, especially if he’s going to be attached to you all day. Now, darling, I’m going to find some champagne and pretend like I’m having a good time.” With that, Louis begins to stalk off.

“I suggest the fountain. Glasses are over there,” Harry calls, gesturing to a table with a tower of sparkling and freshly polished champagne glasses, waiting to be filled.

And yep, that confirms it—it’s a fountain of fucking champagne. How does that even happen?

“Of fucking course,” Louis sing-songs in reply, not looking back.

He’s sad to have left Liam and Zayn—the only two people at this party that he’s even close to knowing—but he needs, absolutely needs, to be away from Harry Styles before he kills him and his little bird, too.

So he waltzes towards the tower of champagne glasses, steals the one at the very top, and drinks his irritation away.

**

It’s been a few hours and a few glasses later, and Louis has had many successful conversations with the guests.

Well. Maybe not exactly successful.

The last guy he talked to kept banging on about his father’s yachts.

“We’ve gone through so many, I can’t even count. My brothers have crashed over a dozen. It’s no bother, of course, since my father’s the head of the company. We get them all the time—we’ve no room for them anymore.”

Are there people in the world who actually find this kind of conversation interesting?

“Ah, yes,” Louis fake-relates, nodding his head as he stares at a plant. “My father owns the British space programme, so we’ve a bunch of old rockets and spaceships lying about.”

“Oh, do you?” Nameless Boy asks, intrigued.

For fuck’s sake.

“No. That was meant to be a joke.”

"Oh."

An awkward silence ensues.

“So…What _does_ your father own?”

And then Louis officially un-invests himself in the conversation.

Since then, he’s stripped down to his trunks (and yes, he caught a few gazes so maybe he's not as pasty and ill-shaped as he had thought) and has been swimming luxuriously, occasionally spotting Liam and Zayn and having a laugh. Liam even hopped in the pool for a bit to keep Louis company at one point, but Zayn never even changed into proper swim attire, opting to sit on the marble benches to the side, elegantly smoking cigarettes and adjusting his fedora. Which doesn’t surprise Louis in the slightest--Zayn doesn't seem like the type to splash around in pools.

Currently, Louis is lying on the cool floor of the room alone, staring up into the sunny blue sky that peeks through the skylight. His hair is still damp, his fingers are still pruny, but he honestly couldn’t care less, feeling relaxed and at peace with the world.

Perhaps he should text Niall.

It’s just as he’s reaching for his trousers that a large pair of feet saunter up to him.

And Louis prays, absolutely prays, that it’s not who he thinks it is. With agitation already building in his stomach, he looks up.

And, yep.

It’s him.

Dressed in tiny pink swim trunks and nothing else. And, to Louis’ surprise, peppered with tattoos. There’s a ‘G’ on his right shoulder, an 'A' on his left, and unfamiliar scrawls written near his collarbones and down his left bicep. There are little images as well, like crowns and triangles and diamonds and what may or may not be a doodle of a cat, and on his wrist is a tiny lock and what appears to be the zodiac sign for Aquarius.

Interesting. (Not.)

“Well, hello,” Harry rumbles, staring down his nose at Louis. How appropriate for the egotistical twat.

“Where’s Cleopatrick?” Louis asks pointedly, refusing to greet him in return.

“Zayn’s watching him,” he says smoothly, and offers his hand to Louis. “May I help you up?”

“Why do you think I want to stand up?”

“To talk to me. I’m lonely up here.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Harry just grins back, wide and unapologetic, his hand still outstretched. And, once again, Louis could almost believe his flirtatious sincerity—if it wasn’t for those fucking eyes. That completely unnerving stare that's going to start haunting Louis’ nightmares if he’s not careful.

Still, Louis takes his hand, if only because his bum is beginning to hurt, and stands up briskly. And then Harry kisses his hand.

He actually kisses his fucking hand, cold lips pressed against warm flesh.

“This isn’t Disney. You can stop now,” Louis mutters in a wry tone, wrenching his hand away.

“Hey. I was merely being polite,” Harry smirks, curls brushing into his lazy eyes.

“I’m sure.”

They stare at each other, Harry grinning winningly, hands behind his back, Louis eying him with suspicious distaste.

“Why are you trying to pull me again?” Louis suddenly asks, voice hard as he folds his arms.

“I’m not. Never was! I’m just trying to have a nice conversation,” Harry purrs, before glancing down at Louis’ very appealing trunks. “Not that I wouldn’t mind having a go, of course.” And the sentiment is rude and demeaning, but Harry matches it with his dimple and tilted head, and Louis can understand why he ensnares so many unwitting victims.

Unfortunately for him, Louis is far from unwitting.

“You’re vile, you know that? None of your child’s tricks are going to work. I actually have a soul, something you are clearly unfamiliar with.”

Harry’s smile falls just the tiniest bit, and Louis once again sees that flash in his eyes—that brief, fleeting moment of actual emotion that is too momentary to place. And then, once again, it’s gone.

“Are you intimidated by my tattoos?” he suddenly asks, and Louis actually starts at that, because—what? Was that line _actually_ just used? And completely out of nowhere?

“You mean, am I intimidated by a bit of ink that’s been stabbed into your skin? Or do you mean the actual images themselves? Because neither are anywhere near intimidating, I can promise you. A silverback gorilla—now that’s intimidating,” Louis says, mustering all the judgment he possesses and pouring it on Harry, flicking hair out of his eyes and placing his hands on his hips.

“What if I got a silverback gorilla tattoo?”

“Still no. Do you _want_ me to be intimidated?”

“Do you want to be?”

“No, for fuck’s sake. You really are thick.”

“I’m actually a genius. A prodigy, even. All my tutors tell me so.”

“That’s cute. For being a genius, you’ve got an awful lot of stupid tattoos.”

Harry’s smile falters. “No I don’t.”

“Yeah, mate. You do.”

And now Harry is openly scowling at him. “I like them.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and inspects the tiny lock painted on Harry’s wrist. “That one’s all right because it’s small. I hate tattoos, by the way. Oh, what’s that say? Some script, it looks like. You get your girlfriend’s name?” Louis asks in a patronizing voice, poking at Harry’s diamond studded watch and the words written underneath in boldface.

Harry immediately rips his hand away, movements jerky and eyes glaring with an intensity Louis’ never encountered before, truly startling him. His eyes, glinting a deep green that holds no ceremony or pretense, bore into Louis, and, fuck. For the first time, Louis feels like he’s looking at an actual person and not a manikin.

Louis feels like he may actually be looking at Harry Styles.

“Don’t touch my watch,” is all he says, and even his voice loses its musical mockery, instead settled low and monotonous.

“Why? Because you’ve got real diamonds embedded in it like a nice little posh boy? Don’t want to smudge them?” he presses, his own temper prickling.

For a second, Louis wonders if Harry is going to punch him, and his blood begins pumping with fire, his temper charged and ready to go.

But then it’s gone.

The scowl, the frown, the realness—it's all gone, replaced by another charming smile and a cardboard stare.

“Of course they’re real diamonds,” Harry says, voice back in place. “I’ve never understood the reason for fake ones. I like things to be genuine,” he says, and isn’t that a joke?

“Perhaps price has something to do with it,” Louis says dryly. “Because, you know, not everybody was born into extreme, undeserved wealth?”

Another flicker dances across his face for the briefest of seconds, soon replaced by a large grin. “I suppose. But price has never been an issue with _me.”_

Louis stares.

There are a thousand bitchy things he could reply with. There are a thousand smacks he could lay on this boy.

But instead, Louis just blinks, and settles for, “I’m going to go over here now,” and walks away.

**

About half an hour later, Harry finds him again, as soon as Liam and Zayn depart to refresh their drinks, leaving him alone.

“You look painfully sober. Are you sure you’ve enough to drink?” he asks, striding up to Louis, and he’s wearing a large white t-shirt over his pink trunks, large, peculiar sandals on his feet.

“You’re back. Aren’t you supposed to be hosting this party?” Louis mumbles, pursing his lips and looking anywhere but at the nuisance beside him.

“I am hosting. I’m talking to my favorite guest,” he smirks, and sends the most insincerely intense stare Louis’ way. He looks more bored than allured, probably mentally picking his clothes for the next day or trying to decide what drug to do next.

“Do you flirt with everything? Like, even Cleopatrick?”

“Especially with Cleopatrick. And he’s with a mate, by the way, before you ask. I look after him, don’t think I’m a bad father.”

“We’ll see how that theory holds. Now, run along. I need Louis Time and it’s getting dark—you’ll need to change to your evening outfit.”

Harry’s smile widens. “How did you know about my evening outfit? Did you bring one as well?”

“Don’t be thick.”

“You can borrow something of mine, if you’d like.”

“You’re still being thick.”

“You can help me undress,” he says lowly, and while he probably finds it to be a temptation, Louis almost spits up all the champagne he’s drank that day.

“Good lord!” he exclaims, turning to face Harry fully. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I well understand what it’s like to be attractive”—Harry raises his eyebrows—“but do you genuinely believe that people actually want you that much? Do you really think that saying things like that matters? That they’re worth saying? Because you do talk some shit and you look like an utter prick.”

Immediately, the scowl is back. Harry stares, eyes set in a flashing glare, and Louis can see the glint of his diamond watch and the various rings coating his fingers as he clenches his fist.

“Can I refresh your drink,” he clips suddenly, and it’s not really a question, stare hard and unyielding.

“No thanks, I can get my own,” Louis says evenly, matching Harry’s glare.

Without another blink, Harry stalks away.

Success.

**

The rest of the party, Louis stays by Liam and Zayn’s sides.

They mingle with the crowd, Liam conducting polite conversation while Zayn and Louis makes jokes about the sloppy drunk kids stumbling around and the pretty girls with no wit.

“I went to school with him,” Zayn chuckles lightly, pointing at a boy fully immersed in the fountain without any trousers, drinking handfuls of the shimmering pink liquid. “He smelled like glue.”

“He looks like he would,” Louis muses, and clinks his glass with Zayn’s. “Here’s to smelling fresh!”

Zayn smiles, taking a sip of his champagne, before setting down the class by his feet and pulling out a slim, guilt case and opening it. He offers a cigarette to Louis, who declines.

“You should come around regularly,” Zayn mutters, lips wrapped around the stick as he clicks the lighter into life.

Louis watches the flame engulf the tip, and Zayn’s perfect lips pucker around the end, sucking in the air reverently. “I might kill your friend.”

Zayn exhales smoke through a smile. “Not if he kills you first.”

“True,” he laughs.

“But I mean it. You should come round tomorrow.”

“If you’re inviting me, then I will. I’ll bring my roomie.”

“Who’s that, then?”

“Niall Horan. He’s this Irish—“

“I know him. He’s a good lad. Got good spirit.”

“That’s an understatement,” Louis says with a roll of the eyes. “He’s fun, though. They’ll enjoy him.”

Zayn nods, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “You’re fun, too,” he acknowledges, looking at Louis with those piercing, lashed eyes. The boy is certainly beautiful.

“I am?” Louis asks, surprised at such open praise--given the source.

“Yeah. I like that you have no boundaries. You say whatever you want, to whoever. It’s nice,” he mumbles, and Louis smiles.

“I get in trouble for it sometimes.”

“I’ll look out for you,” Zayn promises, and he puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and offers the tiniest, sincere smile.

“Thanks, mate,” Louis responds, touched.

Zayn merely nods in return before taking another drag of his cigarette. “Besides, Liam quite likes you.”

“I what?” Liam suddenly asks, finally having been unburdened from the absolute knob he’d been stuck making casualties with.

“You like our Louis, don’t you?” Zayn asks, smiling widely at him, arm around his shoulders.

Louis can’t help but admire the pair as Liam cuddles into his side; Zayn doesn’t smile like that for anybody else. At least not that Louis’ seen.

“I love Louis,” Liam affirms, looking over to Louis with joy. “He’s quite fun.”

“See, I told you,” Zayn smirks, and Louis lifts up his glass once more.

“To us!” he sings, thrusting the champagne into the air.

“To us!” they chorus in return, and the cold, jolting sweetness of the champagne fizzes and slides down Louis’ throat with a pleasantness he never knew he adored so much.

**

The evening progresses into night, and the lights are dimmed, the music increases in volume, and the guests become messier and more vibrant.

Occasionally, Louis spots Harry.

He’s completely rid of the falcon now, probably due to the sheer noise in the place and the fact that he’s begun to stumble over his own feet a bit.

Still, despite his apparent intoxication, he’s the perfect host. He preens and poses and laughs at the right times and urges everyone to try the oysters and snaps his fingers whenever there’s an empty glass and lightly touches the tips of his guests’ elbows as he laughs at their jokes and smiles into their eyes.

He’s full of shit, that’s what he is.

And people follow him. He looks like a ring master, his subjects surrounding him and hopping through hoops. The room tinkles with laughter and the splash of water, and all the while Harry Styles is in the middle of it, posing for flashing photographs and shouting out celebrations into the air as he twirls around like a loud, drunken, reckless ballerina on top of the world.

But how does nobody else see it? How does nobody else spot the shallowness, the fake childhood innocence, the cold hands and his unnerving ability to switch from emotionless to grinning in milliseconds?

How does nobody see what Louis sees?

It fills him with anger, almost blinding anger, and more frustration than he knows how to handle.

“I really hate him,” Louis shouts openly to Liam (thanks to all the alcohol) as the music picks up around them, voices from all directions screaming and laughing.

Liam laughs, unfazed. “Harry’s complex, yeah. But it’s hard not to like someone that charming!” he shouts back, before being swallowed in Zayn’s embrace and jumping back into the fray. Niall wasn’t lying. Liam really is a bit of an adrenaline junky. In the daylight he’s all sensibility and polished sentences; at night, he’s loud and laughing, pumping fists into the air and swinging Zayn around through a never ending haze of liquor.

Louis continues to glare at Harry from across the room as he struts around in front of a group with flowers he’d plucked from the surrounding plants tucked into his curls, smiling and laughing and throwing his arms out exaggeratedly. He remains that way for awhile, the center of attention, before eventually slinking off, alone.

He stops near a window, picking up a few stray glasses and holding them up to the light, staring at them with am impassive expression on his face, rotating them in his grip.

He’s probably high off of his ass.

Beams of moonlight catch on his face, illuminating his pallid skin, crimson lips, and the soft petals of the blossoms tucked in his hair. And though the party swirls around him (and yeah, it’s a damn good party, Louis can give him that) he appears to be in his own little world, face stony and silent, just peering at the glass and the prisms it creates in his eyes. But then suddenly his eyes are closed and his head is bent, his arms falling to his sides in limp defeat, and through his drunken haze, Louis finds himself beginning to walk towards him, curiosity and agitation bubbling up his blood.

He wants to ask Harry why he is the way he is.

He wants to ask why he makes pretty jokes and says lovely things and doesn’t mean any of it, and why he only seems genuine when he’s upset.

Why he’s poisonously charming and errant, and completely barren of any substance or reality.

Why, right now, amongst throngs of willing people and heaps of hedonism, he stands there alone, hanging his head, frozen to the spot.

Then all of a sudden, without warning or transition, Harry awakens into life, leaping atop the fountain, arms outstretched and head thrown back to the heavens.

“I AM NOT YOUNG ENOUGH TO KNOW EVERYTHING!” he bellows into the air, his deep, rasping voice reverberating against the walls.

There’s a momentary lull in volume as all heads turn toward him, and Louis stands there blinking, unable to take his eyes away from Harry’s stiff figure, splayed like a crucifixion as the champagne fountain spits over his limbs, his eyes wide and unseeing and filled with the stars from the sky.

It’s almost haunting, and Louis doesn’t breathe.

Then, like clockwork, there’s a surge of amused laughter, and a few sporadic attempts at applause as the party reconvenes.

What the fuck?

“Oh, Harold!” he hears a girl laugh, like this is such typical behavior of him, and Louis can’t help but throw a withering glare in her direction.

Harry then leaps down, a wild grin on his face, and immediately becomes overrun by a swarm of glittering arms and mouths open in laughter and exclamations. Soon he becomes lost in the fray, another head in a sea of chaos, leaving Louis to stand there in bewilderment, brain buzzing fervently.

**

The last time Louis sees Harry that night, he’s exiting the building amidst a pile of sloppy, sloshed, screaming boys and girls, half-holding him up. His sightless eyes are dilated, his skin glistens with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead, and his bow tie hangs, undone and forgotten.

It’s a hot fucking mess.

And Louis thinks, just as he’s gathering the last of his things, alcohol and sleep tugging at his limbs (and the promise of cake at his flat):

‘Yep, I’m definitely going to stay as far away from that as I can.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, pretty things!


	9. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn Malik hosts a picnic.

Louis awakens the next morning with a head that may have the potential to spontaneously combust.

“Oh god,” he breathes, blindly reaching for water on his nightstand. But fuck, there is none—and where exactly is Niall? Shouldn’t he be checking on him and fetching him things?

When Louis finally stumbled his way through the door last night, the boy was nowhere to be found, only the remnants of some Irish stew lying in the sink indicating that he had been there at all since Louis had last seen him.

It didn’t irritate him or anything. It’s not as if he had mentally planned out his tirade about the party and Harry Styles on the way home or anything. He really did enjoy the peace of solitude. If Niall HAD been there, he probably would have ended up playing the fucking piano or farting.

But now Louis is awake (only in the most generous sense of the word) and is weakly grasping at air, pillow over his face as he quietly suffers through existence.

“Niall,” he calls weakly, voice burdened from sleep and dehydration.

Champagne is evil. It’s pretty and fun and it loves you and it’s evil.

“Niall,” he tries again, but his door is closed and he knows Niall is nowhere near doting enough to be listening for Louis’ weak pleas.

Thankfully, this is the twenty-first century.

Feeling like he just crawled out of the devil’s ass crack, Louis fumbles for his phone, finding Niall’s name (he’s not talking about the fact that he’s made it to his list of favorites—it was for convenience and nothing else) and pressing it with all the passion his hungover and pitied state can muster.

It rings once.

“Tommo!” Niall answers robustly as soon as he picks up. “Where are you? I was just about to have Rory get us some food.”

“You sound very chipper for being awake so early,” Louis rasps.

“It’s nearly midday.”

“Midday is early. Anytime of the day involving the sun is early.”

“Can’t say I disagree with you there. But even so, I had lecture. Just came back, in fact.”

Lecture.

It’s Monday.

Fuck.

FUCK.

“Fuck,” Louis repeats, and it’s a squeak of despair. “I slept clear through! I’m going to be kicked out of school at this rate.”

“Don’t be dramatic. So what say you, then? Want anything in particular? Salmon? A sandwich? Lasagna?”

“I’m going to need petrol. And a match. Throw in some gunpowder while you’re out.”

“…Does this have to do with Harry?”

“No. Well. I mean, I guess it could. But no—Niall, I think I’m dying.”

“Where are you?”

“In my room.”

“You called me from your room?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in there right now?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause on the other line, then the sound of heavy footsteps. The door bursts open, and there’s Niall in black jersey shorts, a cream colored long-sleeve shirt, and a snapback, phone pressed to his ear. He looks tired, shadows deep under his eyes, but the brightness of his smile chases any of the darkness away.

“Praise Jesus,” Louis breathes, dropping his phone instantly. “Come here,” he demands, arms outstretched. “Carry me around, bring me water, and drug me. I beg you.”

Niall grins wider, tucking his phone into his pocket before bouncing over to Louis, arms sliding beneath his body.

Ok, then. Apparently he’s actually going to pick Louis up. No complaints there.

“Fun night?” Niall laughs, hoisting Louis into the air. Which does nothing for his stomach.

“What’s ‘fun’? I’ve never heard of it. I’m only familiar with ‘pain’ and ‘regret’,” Louis groans, grasping at his abdomen. “Can you call Rory again and tell him to bring the hospital?”

Niall laughs even louder in Louis’ ear (ouch) before clomping into the living room and dropping Louis inelegantly onto the couch.

“Ow!” Louis whines, shielding light from his eyes. “You could be more gentle!”

“I’ve no time for gentle.” Niall hops away and Louis hears him rummaging through cabinets, turning on the faucet, and humming some intolerably chipper tune.

Death to Irish.

By the time he’s returned, Louis has already made a mental list of the ten best buildings he would fling himself off of right now to escape his misery. Because, true, Louis’ always been a bit of a partier and he’s had his fair share of hangovers. But never like this.

He’s almost entirely sure that Harry poisoned him.

“I think Harry poisoned me,” he voices aloud, grabbing the offered crystal glass of water and pills.

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Niall shrugs, hands on hips as he looks down at Louis thoughtfully.

“For what?”

“If you die.”

“Lovely,” Louis glares, but settles his head back down on the pillow.

“So how was it, then?” Niall asks, lifting Louis’ legs as he sits next to him, plopping them onto his lap.

“Not so fast. Where were you? You were gone last night. I came home to an empty flat,” Louis mourns.

“I went out with some mates. Nothing big—just a few pubs and clubs and shite. Oh, I met Mick Jagger!” Niall adds as an afterthought.

Louis releases his hands from his eyes.

“Sorry?”

“I met Mick Jagger. I have a picture, I’ll show you later.”

And Louis really wants to elaborate on this (“YOU MET MICK FUCKING JAGGER AND THAT WASN’T THE FIRST THING YOU SAID TO ME?” and “JUST WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU THAT MICK FUCKING JAGGER WAS PRANCING AROUND MEETING PEOPLE?!”) but his head has a pulse and the bitter aftertaste of liquor and potentially-impending vomit fill his mouth.

So instead he just groans his frustration and settles back into the pillow, hands back on his eyes.

“Right then. You’ve just forfeited your turn to speak because you’re a knob," he mutters irritably. Niall only laughs in response. "My night was fun as well. Long, frustrating, sweaty, but fun. Zayn and Liam were a good time. There was a champagne fountain which was potentially poisoned, there was a lot of shitty music, a gorgeous swimming pool filled with too many people, good food, and I even was able to witness Harry Styles’ split personalities firsthand.”

“Did you, now?” Niall asks, surprised, arm slung over the back of the couch. “What did he do?”

“Well, he tried to pull me again. And then again. But then he gave up and he turned into a total wanker—you should’ve seen his face. Then later he climbed onto the fountain and started screaming things and he looked like he was on the verge of mental collapse. And then suddenly, he was back to normal. Like nothing had happened at all! It was mental, mate. I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

Niall smiles and shakes his head, clapping Louis on the arm. “Well, at least you had fun and he ended up leaving you the fuck alone. You let me know if he ever bothers you, you hear?" Louis nods, a bit begrudgingly, but it smooths the light creases of concern on Niall's face all the same. "Good," he nods. "Now. Since you’re feeling so shite, why don’t we smoke before lunch? When’s your next tutorial?”

“I’ve got one in about two hours,” Louis pouts. Why is he in school again? Who said this was fun? With a sigh, he curls in on himself, sinks deeper into the cushions of the couch.

“Perfect.”

And Niall gets up to get his bowl while Louis whimpers through his pain.

**

“You’d think you’d want to be a better student,” Niall strains as he keeps the smoke held in his chest, passing the small, glass fixture to Louis. “Seeing as how you’re spending all this money that you don’t really have.”

Louis is becoming increasingly aware of Niall’s complete lack of tact.

“It’s Charles’ money, not mine,” he mutters, wrapping his lips around the smooth glass and flicking the lighter. “Besides, I’ve only missed a couple lectures. Today’s an off day. I’ll be back to form come tomorrow.”

“Who’s Charles?”

“M’dad,” he replies the mouth-full of smoke. 

“Why do you call him Charles?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?” Louis coughs as the smoke spews from him in waterfalls, vision blurring. “Hey, can you get my phone?”

Niall agrees, eyes red and lidded, and heaves himself up off the couch. His movements are less hyper, more measured as he strides to Louis’ room.

He comes back a moment later with the prize in tow.

“Thanks, mate. You’re the best,” Louis says absently, flicking it on.

And oh!

Text from Liam!

_‘Picnic today at 4pm. Wear blue. :)’_

“Wear blue,” Louis repeats, raising his eyebrows. “These blokes are something else, aren’t they? Bossy.”

Niall smiles hazily. “Anyone born into money is bossy.”

“Well, I know that you are.”

He nods. “Born that way. But you should go.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“I’ve got to go rowing.”

Louis’ jaw drops in outrage as he turns to him. “That’s just becoming an excuse now, isn’t it?”

“Nah, mate,” Niall chuckles, stretching his legs.

“But I promised them you’d come. Now you look rude. You can’t be rude to Zayn Malik.”

“I’ll go next time. I mean it,” he adds at Louis’ wry glare, “I think I’m going to quit.”

“Why? Because you miss me?” Louis teases, scrunching his face (which maybe hurts his still slightly pounding brain) and smashing it into Niall’s neck who laughs and wiggles away.

“Too much rowing,” he explains amidst chuckles, then gets up, ruffling Louis’ hair on his way past.

“You better not be going to that damn pian—“

But Louis is cut off by the beginnings of “A Thousand Miles.”

“I’m going to smash that thing,” he grumbles to himself as he collapses onto the couch, face down.

And if his head begins hurting a little bit less at the tinkling notes, Louis will never admit it.

**

When Louis goes to lecture that day (like the good boy that he is—Niall was trying to convince him to play football instead) he hears Zayn’s name repeated amongst the swirls of whispers over. And over. And over.

“I saw Zayn Malik today!”

“Zayn Malik just invited me to a party!”

“Did you know Zayn Malik had his boys throw Gilbert Fopp into the lake?”

“Zayn Malik shags everyone at his parties. That’s why he only lets all the pretty girls go.”

“I just heard Zayn Malik telling someone that he bought a share of the school so that he could co-manage it with his father.”

“Ohmygosh,  Zayn Malik just threatened to hire hitmen because a boy cut in the queue!”

And it goes on, each whisper more outrageous than the next.

The first dozen times, Louis calls them out.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he snaps at a cluster of giggling girls, Louis Vuitton bags pressed to their chests, hair glimmering. “He would never say that. Stop spreading that shit around.”

But he’s only met with blank stares before they return to their conversation in full animation.

It’s going to be a long day.

And though Louis really shouldn’t listen, really shouldn’t take any of it to heart, he can’t help but feel a mixture of annoyance—he probably knows Zayn better than any of these boys and girls and Zayn is nothing like he’s painted out to be—and curiosity.

Because even though Louis gets on with Zayn and has grown increasingly fond of him in the two instances they’ve knocked about, he doesn’t _really_ know him. And Louis has never been the naive type. He knows that people are capable of many unsuspecting things.

For all he knows, Zayn really could have hired a hitman because he grew impatient waiting for his latte. It’s entirely possible, and Louis really can’t make an argument one way or another. The boy certainly has the power to do something to that effect.

Feeling a little dazed (because what has his life become?) Louis spends the rest of his tutorial in a half-daze, envisioning the various scenarios in which he would be moved to such extreme measures as to hire a hitman.

**

“I’m off to go to club now!” Niall greets as soon as Louis comes through the door, dazed from having heard far too many playwrights’ names in too short a time. Can’t they just stop at Shakespeare? Isn’t he the only one that really matters? Why is he in drama, again?

“Row, row, row your boat,” Louis sings in a mumble, pumping a falsely enthusiastic fist into the air as he dumps his shoulder bag on the floor and kicks his shoes off.

“Have fun at your picnic. Good luck with Harry. Text me if he’s being a cunt,” Niall says, blue eyes pointed in authority, and Louis can’t help but laugh.

“Stop fussing and get on.”

“I mean it, though. Text me if there’s trouble. Promise?”

“Will you just go?”

“Promise?”

Louis literally kicks Niall out the door and slams it in his face. “I PROMISE!” he shouts through the heavy wood with a grin and roll of the eyes.

He hears Niall’s muffled, “Damn straight,” before his footsteps recede into nothing.

And now, it’s Louis vs. Picnic.

First and foremost on the agenda? The outfit.

So Louis bustles to Niall’s closet.

**

Once Louis is properly garbed (blue button-up, gray skinny jeans, and leather shoes) and has received a helpful phone call from Liam (“Meet at our rooms and don’t bring anything except yourself!”) he exits his flat, the knowledge that he needs to do his homework at some point tonight tucked in the back of his mind.

He retraces his steps from that very first luncheon, finding his way to the tower and winding his way up the steps until he meets with that familiar oak door, stood ajar in the exact same fashion as it had been only a few short days ago.

“The party’s started, I’m here!” Louis calls, pushing the door open.

Liam is standing by the window bedecked in a sky blue waistcoat, pristine white button-up underneath, and sky blue slacks, efficiently texting on his Blackberry, the light from the window illuminating his right side, before he looks up with a happy grin at Louis’ arrival.

“Louis!” he exclaims, sounding genuinely excited.

Louis categorizes Liam as a puppy. Niall’s the dragon, Zayn’s the snake, and Liam’s the puppy. And considering the puppy’s in love with the snake, it all makes for a very interesting scenario.

Speaking of the snake, Zayn stands on the other side of the room in front of the mirror above the fireplace, carefully fixing any and all hairs that are out of place, face serious and full of concentration. He looks as if he’s been ripped out of a fashion mag, the spitting image of perfection in his cornflower suit, sapphire cufflinks, and white leather shoes (that Louis may or may not be salivating over). His signature fedora rests on the mantle.

“Hey mate,” he deadpans as he fusses with a particularly stubborn strand. “Glad you could come.” He doesn’t exactly sound excited, he never does, but the boyishness in his tone is warm and at ease, and Louis smiles, wondering how he could have questioned his character.

Of course Zayn Malik wouldn’t hire hitmen. What even were these rumors?

He’s not the kind of snake that wraps around unsuspecting throats and strangles the life out of helpless victims. He’s the kind that lies in the sun and winds down garden paths, peering curiously at you from the thistles.

“SO glad you came,” Liam emphasizes, walking up to Louis and shaking his hand.

Louis looks down at their hands. “Do we have to do this every time we greet each other? Cuz I gotta be honest—I’m not a fan.”

Zayn chuckles.

“Oh,” Liam says in surprise, and immediately lets go of Louis’ hand. “My apologies. Habit, I suppose,” he reasons with a smile, before his eyes return to their squinted glee. “Well, shall we? Zayn, darling, are you ready?”

“My hair’s shit today,” Zayn mumbles in answer, adorning his fedora in defeat.

Liam smiles fondly, immediately walking over and standing behind him, hands on his shoulders. They lock eyes through the mirror and Liam’s grin widens as he rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Your hair is never shit! I think you’re perfect. But we should go before the flowers wilt.”

With a reassuring press of lips to Zayn’s neck, Liam guides Zayn over to Louis who watches the pair with a stubborn fondness in his chest. He’s not a sap, never was, but even a block of ice would admit that they’re cute.

“Off we go then, lads,” Louis smiles, allowing them to walk ahead, before following closely behind and smiling contentedly at the thought that Harry Styles is nowhere to be seen.

**

He should have known that a picnic with Zayn and Liam was less of a ‘blanket on the ground’ and more of a ‘white bistro tables and salmon tablecloths with wine and chocolates and violins.’

And let’s not forget the piano.

“You brought a fucking piano? You actually called someone to deliver a piano to your picnic?” Louis questions, disbelief bugging his eyes.

“Of course! Every picnic needs a piano!” Liam laughs.

Zayn’s own pressed grin admires Louis. “Do you play?” he asks mildly.

“Not even a little bit. Niall tried to teach me but it didn’t do anything but piss me off.”

“Do you sing? Zayn’s classically trained,” Liam gushes, smiling over at him like he’s the sun.

“Are you now?” Louis asks, genuinely intrigued. “That’s brill! I’ve always wanted to sing.”

“We’ll make a night of it!” Liam exclaims happily.

“He sings, too,” Zayn says by way of explanation. “A lot.”

“Not that much,” Liam protests. “Just when the opportunity arises. Now. Can we get you anything to drink Louis? Please, take a seat.”

Louis obliges as he takes in his surroundings. It’s a beautiful clearing by a lake, the grass green and soft, wildflowers peppering the landscape. There are soft willows grazing in the wind, ivy twining up the trunks, and the soothing sound of water licking at rocks blends perfectly with the violinists.

It feels alarmingly like a wedding.

It’s a gorgeous place, though. They drove there, Zayn taking out that antique car that Louis had seen on that first day he’d arrived (and he feels the tiniest big smug about being right—he _knew_ it was them in that car; he also realizes with a hit of annoyance that the curly head that had been laughing in the back, balancing on the top of the seats and thrusting the champagne? Yeah, that was Harry, of fucking course, but he’s not thinking about him right now if he doesn’t have to) and it’s a ways from school, but not incredibly far, tucked enough away that it feels private and different.

“Have some wine. And a cigar,” Liam offers, taking the seat next to him.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Louis says, smiling sunnily up at the gentleman pouring his glass as Zayn slides him a thick, meaty cigar that costs more than his shoes.

**

With the warm breeze ruffling his hair, the undertones of cigar smoke permeating the smell of blossoms and cheese, and the sunlight that catches on his eyelashes and throws prisms off of the crystal, speckling the world with rainbow droplets, Louis finds himself falling in love with the way Zayn Malik holds social gatherings.

And, okay, maybe he understands the dress code now-- the various blues of their outfits compliment the grass and sky perfectly, brightening the atmosphere and providing for perfect pictures.

These are his people. They understand him.

“You throw a lovely picnic, Mr. Malik,” Louis smiles, downing another glass of Pinot Grigio and selecting yet another cigar.

“I’ve been told as much,” Zayn smiles, lounging in his chair and occasionally looking over to Liam who has begun playing the piano.

“I notice none of the lads are here,” Louis says through the cigar between his teeth as he attempts to light it against the breeze.

Zayn leans over and cups his hands around the end until a successful flame has established. “Harry’s on his way,” he smirks, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Who? Harry? Never heard of him,” Louis clips, breathing out the woody smoke.

“I haven’t invited the other lads. I can though, if you like.”

Louis shrugs. “Up to you, mate. It’s your picnic.”

“Actually, it’s yours.”

He stares at Zayn. “What do you mean?”

“Liam asked me to have this in your honor. Didn’t he say?” Zayn asks mildly, motioning to the server for another refill.

“No,” Louis says and he feels his cheeks flush at the idea. “This is all for me? The chocolates, the cheese, the wine, the violins, the delivered piano? For me?”

Zayn smiles lightly, observing him. “We already told you we like you,” he says, as if that explains anything.

“Wow,” Louis laughs, uncrossing his legs and fumbling a bit with his shirt. He’s not a sentimental person, but he can’t deny that he’s flattered and secretly very pleased. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, love. I think we’re going to get on real well.” He grins winningly and salutes him, hoping his voice held his emotions in check.

“I very much agree,” Zayn says in his silken tone, and just as he opens his mouth to say something more, the sound of an engine comes rumbling up.

They both turn to see a sleek black car pull up, its tinted windows cold against the peaceful ambiance of their surroundings.

The driver gets out, dutifully walks to the side, and opens the door, back stiff and attentive.

Louis’ disappointment begins to prickle already because who else could this be but one person?

And yep.

Harry Styles, wearing a sapphire blue velvet suit and silver bow tie, holding a cluster of white lilies, climbs out of the car, his thick curls catching in the wind and light, his venomous smile blooming as he takes in the scene before him.

But he’s not alone.

Five girls follow him.

_Five._

Louis bites back the surge of annoyance that floods him and instead settles for another swig of wine.

“This is going to be fun,” Louis breathes through gritted teeth, and Zayn glances at him with a light smirk.

“Harry,” Zayn greets lazily, head tilted to the side.

“Well, hello there, beautiful,” Harry purrs, and passes one of his lilies to him as dabs a kiss to his lips. “Hold this at all times. Lilies make everything better and I refuse to talk to anyone who isn’t holding one.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Louis bites back yet another surge of distaste with yet another gulp of wine. This is going to be a long day.

He sits there as Harry and Zayn chat, clutching his wine glass a little too tightly, and waits for the inevitable “Louis Tomlinson” and all the fake charm that he’s so accustomed to. Perhaps he’ll double his efforts to win Louis over since yesterday was such an utter disaster for him.

Harry smiles one last dead smile at Zayn before he disengages himself from the conversation. “You look perfect, by the way. I should’ve snatched you when I had the chance. Shouldn’t I have, ladies?” Harry grins, his arms sliding over the shoulders of the stack of girls on either side of him as Zayn’s smile falters very momentarily (odd).

“We’re all very impressed,” Louis grumbles quietly, rolling his eyes.

And there, he’s spoken. Now he’s going to get the classic Harry act and have to deal with—

“Liam, love!” Harry calls suddenly, looking straight through Louis, and walking past him as if he were an insect on a log.

What the fuck?

Appalled, Louis twists in his seat and watches him depart with his harem, hoping very much that his jaw is not too dropped. He whips back over to Zayn.

“He just ignored me. That wanker just ignored me!”

Zayn shrugs. “He does that sometimes. Probably for the best.”

“Of course. No, of course you’re right. I’m happy he’s not talking to me,” Louis fake laughs before delving into a half-assed conversation with Zayn, fervently ignoring the outrage and wounded pride that have settled in his bones.

**

Harry ignores Louis throughout the whole fucking picnic. He also chooses to give lilies to every single person (even the servers) except Louis.

Even when Louis whips out a bitchy comment, it’s met with complete indifference, Harry opting to either check his phone, sip his wine, or bury his giggling face into one of the girls’ necks.

It’s great, really. Splendid, even.

So Louis texts Niall.

_‘THAT FUCKER IS ACTING LIKE I DON’T EXIST. HE’S IGNORING ME !!!!!’_

Soon his phone alights.

_‘Congrats! Goal accomplished! Have fun mate x’_

And no, that wasn’t helpful at all.

But Niall is right. He is. Louis needs to appreciate being ignored by the single most repulsive human being on the planet.

So, stuffing his cheeks with chocolate, Louis stands up and joins them around the piano, Liam still playing, his lily draped on his lap, and Zayn sat next to him still clutching his, Harry (who now has one in his button hole as well as in his fist) and the prostitutes engulfing them.

“You should try them out. They’re lovely,” Harry says, petting the girls beneath their chins as they coo.

And fuck no, he better not be talking about those girls like that.

Zayn shakes his head with a light laugh. “We’re not interested in your girls, Harry. They’re all yours.”

Okay, fuck. That is it. No more restraint.

“You do realize those are people and not objects, Curly? And they’re not to be ‘tried out’?” Louis bites, folding his arms and staring hard at Harry.

Harry’s grin freezes, eyes fixed on one of the girls. His expression transforms to one of complete annoyance, but he doesn’t look at Louis.

The blonde cranes her head to look at Harry, clearly unimpressed, and not-so-subtly asks with distaste, “Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” Harry snaps, then returns his gaze to the piano.

Louis’ tendons seize. His temper flares. And he begins a slow and steady mantra in his head: ‘I will not attack Harry Styles. I will not attack Harry Styles. I will not attack Harry Styles.’

It’s not calming him at all, but it is preventing him from smashing his face in the dirt.

The conversation continues, Louis firmly excluded; once in awhile Liam will ask him a polite question, features set in a smile. His answer is usually cut short by Harry however, who manages to fill the space with superficial, ridiculous comments (at one point he drawls “I want to get drunk and look at myself” to one of the girls) and only agitates Louis further.

“What happened to Cleopatrick?” Louis suddenly asks, glaring full on at the bastard.

Harry sips his wine and stares at the sky.

“Zayn found him the perfect home,” Liam smiles. “He was even able to keep his name!”

“Was he?” Harry suddenly asks, seeming genuinely delighted.

“Yeah, they loved it!”

“I hate the world,” Louis grumbles, but doesn’t press the subject further.

The conversation continues in this manner, Harry telling them all about how Native American necklaces are his “new thing” and repeatedly showing the one he’s wearing underneath his starched collar.

“My father has a whole collection I didn’t even know about. Mine now,” Harry winks, stuffing the arrow head and feathers back underneath his shirt.

“What do you mean, ‘mine now’?” Louis once again spits, and he curses himself and his complete lack of control over his temper.

Unsurprisingly, Harry completely ignores him.

“Is Des back home?” Liam asks, looking up.

Harry’s smile catches instantly. For a moment he stares at Liam, eyes lost, the cocky glow of his face replaced with an almost imperceptive tension before he blinks rapidly and averts his gaze.

“Yes.”

The answer is short and packed with a pressure that lies just beyond reach, as if locked away in a chest at the bottom of the sea.

It surprises Louis, enough to stare closely at Harry and his brief bite of lip, and whereas Harry’s charm usually resurfaces instantly, he appears to be reassembling himself with slight difficulty.

Zayn watches closely. “Would you like to sing a song, Harold?” he asks, voice gentle enough to invoke Louis’ curiosity. Because what does he know? What do they all know? Niall had said Des was a bit of a loose cannon, but there’s something intangible that suggests there’s more to the story.

So Louis watches Harry and those eyes that reflect nothing.

“I don’t sing during the day. If you’ll excuse me, lads,” Harry says, tone flawless but expression still off kilter, and glides away, girls in tow.

**

Eventually, Harry returns to normal, preening, cracking bad jokes, and making odd observations, so any curiosity Louis had begun to feel for him has successfully evaporated, his annoyance back in place.

Which is when, of course, Harry approaches Louis for the first time. Well, more Zayn than Louis, but Louis is right there so it still counts.

“Zayn, precious,” Harry rumbles, the words dripping. “I don’t suppose you have any herbal jazz cigarettes on you, do you?” His grin is mischievous and sly.

What the hell did he just ask for?

“Not on me, no. Sorry, mate.”

Harry purses his lips, eyes never leaving Zayn, his shoulders tensing with annoyance. “Does _he?”_ he then asks, jerking a thumb in Louis’ direction.

Wow.

Zayn looks to Louis. “Louis, mate, do you have any weed?”

“No,” Louis says, and allows the word to soak with his irritation.

Harry’s brow furrows. “How about pills, or anything like that? Does he have those?” he asks Zayn, who is now apparently playing messenger.

Zayn looks to Louis again. “Do you have any pills or—“

Louis smiles out his impatience and places a gentle yet firm hand on Zayn’s shoulder.

“I hear him, love.” Zayn nods and continues to look expectantly at him while Harry looks expectantly at Zayn. “And no, I’m fresh out of narcotics.”

Harry scowls, downing his glass of wine in one go. “Well,” he sighs, licking the remnants of the purple liquid off of his ruby lips, “thank you for your trouble, beautiful. But I best be on my way.”

“So soon? I thought you were going to serenade us when the sun went down,” Zayn muses.

“I thought _you_ were,” Harry counters, poking a finger into Zayn’s chest. “I miss your professionally trained falsetto.”

“I was waiting for you,” Zayn smirks and they grin at each other.

Harry brushes his creamy knuckles against the caramel of Zayn’s cheekbone. “That’s what makes you beautiful, darling. Text me when you’re back.”

With that, he presses a chaste kiss to Zayn’s lips and turns on his heel, the light of the sun illuminating his velvet back, the lilies hanging limply in his grip.

“I think I’m going to leave as well. I’ve got homework I absolutely need to do.”

Without missing a beat, Harry spins around.

“You know what, Zayn, I may just stay after all. The girls are enjoying themselves.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Subtle,” Louis glares, and though Harry does not return his gaze, he visibly smirks.

Zayn shakes his head as he looks between the pair, just as Liam joins them.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Liam asks Louis, eyes wide.

“I am indeed. Homework. You know. Being a student and all that.”

“Can’t you just get somebody to do it for you? Just for tonight?”

“Uh…”

“He’s a good student, our Louis. Likes to do his homework himself. Don’t you?” Zayn asks.

“Not really, no. But I need to try because I need to do good here. So, lads, it’s been a pleasure,” Louis smiles, clapping Zayn and Liam on the shoulders.

Harry busies himself with his cufflink.

“Tomorrow,” Liam says before Louis departs, “we’re having a tea party at three. Zayn’s rooms. You must come. I’ll text you a reminder.”

Louis nods and begins walking towards the road, getting out his phone to call Niall. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then, lads.”

“Let me drive you back,” Liam suddenly calls, jogging to catch up with him.

“Oh,” Louis says, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I’d be happy to,” Liam says cleanly, teeth perfect. “It gives us a chance to talk.”

All right then.

Louis laughs, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “As you wish, love. Thanks.”

Liam beams and holds Louis’ door open for him. “Any time at all,” he replies, and smiles at Louis for a bit longer than is necessary before getting into the driver’s seat and starting the car.

**

“Liam Payne just asked me if I wanted to have a threesome with him and Zayn Malik!” Louis shrieks as soon as he bursts through the door to his flat.

Niall stares up from the tub of gelato he is currently devouring by the counter, giant headphones shoved on his head. He flicks one off of his ear. “What?”

“Liam Payne just asked me if I wanted to have a threesome with him and Zayn Malik!!” Louis repeats, an octave higher.

Niall stares for a moment, gelato dripping off of his spoon, before bursting into laughter.

“It’s not funny!” Louis screeches. “What if that’s the only reason they’ve been nice to me?? To add me to their twisted, sex games? Am I just a body to them?”

“Mate, mate, mate,” Niall guffaws, nearly doubled over, “That is classic! That is the best thing I’ve ever heard!”

Louis folds his arms and glares. “Are you finished?”

“No!” Niall manages, pounding a fist on the counter.

“Great,” Louis breathes with a roll of the eyes. “I’m serious though, Niall. What kind of people are these? I was just beginning to like them!”

“I’m sure that’s not the reason they like you,” Niall chuckles, his laughter finally dying down as he wipes tears from his eyes. “Did you agree?”

“OF COURSE NOT!”

“Did he take it well?”

“Yeah. I mean…yeah. He was fine, actually. It was just a casual offer. I don’t think he was planning it out or anything,” Louis says, sitting down on one of the velvet armchairs and feeling a bit sick.

“How did it come up?”

“Well, he was talking about his and Zayn’s relationship then he asked me if I was single, then he asked why, and then he just asked me!”

“Was it a pity invite? Because you’re alone?” Niall asks, putting the lid on the gelato and returning it to the freezer.

Oh god.

Louis shrinks in horror. “OHMYGOD. You don’t think it was, was it? Does he think I’m pathetic? And so lonely that he was offering his and his boyfriend’s bodies to me?” Louis ponders this good and hard, then suddenly clutches a hand to his chest, gasping. “Ohmygod, but that’s sort of beautiful.” He looks up at Niall with shining eyes.

Niall faces him and stares, eyebrows nearly lost in his hairline. “Beautiful? Are you being serious? Tommo, is that you? Are you drunk?” Niall asks, and walks up to Louis and inspects his face suspiciously.

“I mean it, Nialler! If that’s what he really meant, that’s so sweet!”

“Not really. Still a bit fuckin’ creepy.”

“Creepy, yes, but much less so than when I thought he was just after my perfect body. He was just being polite,” Louis exclaims with sentiment, smacking Niall on the arm with enthusiasm. “Awwww, you lads and your posh manners. You’re a bunch of nutters, but I think you’re growing on me.”

Niall shakes his head and laughs, pulling Louis off of the chair and into a standing position. “Funny that it took a sexual proposition for you to see that and not, say, us being mates. But I don’t look a gift horse in the fuckin’ mouth. So. Let’s play FIFA.”

“Then dinner? My choice?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Your choice,” Niall agrees, then hops over the back of the couch and settles himself on it, Louis following with a pleased grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okkaaaay. So. I'm warning you now, I am going to do terrible things to Harry's character before he gets better. I feel guilty because the real Harry is literal sunshine and flowers, but I'm having fun warping him in this story. SO. Just so you're warned, he's going to be a HOT MESS in the next chapter. 
> 
> His song is "Hook & Line" by the Kills. Hands down. To get a vibe of who this Harry Styles is in this story, listen to that song yo. And, just for the record, "This Boy" by Franz Ferdinand is Niall's. That sums him up as well. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, you're all perfect! <3


	10. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis attends a not-so-tea party and is introduced to Harry Styles' demons.

The next day, after being woken up dutifully to Niall’s flawless rendition of Chopin’s Scherzo No. 2 Opus 31, Louis attends all of his lectures, homework firmly done and ready for a look over, and is the best student he’s ever been, taking notes in every course and not once drawing a doodle of a noose.

He’s so proud of himself on his way home that he’s about to offer to treat Niall to scones and scotch, when his phone rings, “The Imperial March” flooding the air.

Mum.

Fuck.

Well. There are two options now. Either Louis can slide the phone back into his pocket and never say a word….or he can answer. Given that he has yet to answer one of his mum’s calls, he decides on the latter, nerves already tensing.

“Mum,” he greets faux cheerfully as he unlocks the door to the flat.

“Boo bear,” she says quietly. Suspiciously quietly. Fuck.

“What’s wrong?” Louis immediately asks, keeping the agitation out of his voice as he shoulders the door open.

Niall’s sitting at the piano again, smoking a cigar while the TV’s on.

Louis nods in his direction before averting his attention back to the phone.

“Oh…nothing. I just.” There’s a pause on the other line and he hears a sharp intake of breath followed by a near-sob. “I miss you, love.”

Goddammit.

He knows what this means.

“Mum. Mum, are you watching after the girls? Where are you?”

“I’m outside. I need to be alone right now.”

“Where are the girls? Are they being looked after?”

“They’re fine, Louis. I miss you—“

“MUM. Maggie’s only FOUR. Get back inside right now. You need to look after them.”

“I don’t want to,” she says, beginning to cry, and Louis’ nerves fizzle as he brings a hand up to massage his temples.

“It’s not about what you want. You’re their mum. You can do this. Just like you were a good mum before Charles left…you can be a good mum without him. Come on.”

The line is quiet, filled only by the muffled sound of wind and deep breaths.

“You’re right, love. You were always wise beyond your years.”

Louis nods, his teeth gritting. “I had to be. Now get back inside, yeah? Please?”

“I will. I’ll look after them, Lou. Just wait, I’ll be a good mum. I’ll do you proud.”

“Do yourself proud,” he says, and tries his best keeping his own emotions in check, his voice dangerously close to rising.

Niall looks up at him, brow furrowed, but Louis ignores him for the moment, instead walking over to the row of low set windows that line the wall. He stares out into the sunny expanse of grass, students milling about, and faintly notes that he’s in the very spot where Zayn had gotten sick all over him just that short time ago.

“I will.” There’s another pause. “Miss me, Lou?”

Louis closes his eyes. “Yes, mum. Now get back inside, please. Please. I love you,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Love you, too. Keep in touch.”

And then the line is dead.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mumbles, setting down his phone on the counter as he drops into the nearest chair.

“Was that your mum?” Niall asks with surprise, staring at Louis from across the room, hands now in his lap.

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Everything.”

Niall just stares.

With a roll of the eyes, Louis elaborates. “She’s not been right ever since Charles left all those years ago. Sometimes she just takes off or forgets about us kids. All she does is cry and look for the people who aren’t in her life. So I have to remind her now, since I was the one who took care of everyone when I was at home.” Louis hears the bitterness that tinges his words and prays Niall doesn’t ask for further details.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“Fuck. That’s rough, mate.”

Louis shrugs. “It is what it is. Now, what are your plans for the day? Because we have a tea party to attend.”

Niall then smiles, lighting up the shadows of the room instantly. “All right.”

“All right? No excuses? No rowing club? You’re actually going to come?”

“Yep. I quit yesterday. I was bored out of my shite mind. So let’s go to a fuckin’ tea party!” And he hops off of the piano stool, barreling himself into his room with a loud whoop.

Louis smiles. This may just turn out to be a splendid day indeed.

**

When they arrive at Zayn’s rooms, dressed in awkwardly matching outfits which they only realized after they were almost there (“Niall Horan, you are going to march straight back to our flat and change this instant. My braces match your trousers. That is NOT acceptable.” “Our shirts match, too.” “NIALL!”), Louis is already a tad flustered.

Luckily Niall is incapable of that emotion.

“Knock, knock!” Niall calls from the other side of the oak door, the very embodiment of anti-shyness.

“You know that’s rude. You should’ve let me do that,” Louis scolds.

“Why?”

“Because _I_ know them.”

“I know them, too!”

“Not as well as me!”

“I’ve known them longer.”

“It doesn’t work like that—all you rich people know each other or are related! It’s like incest!”

A voice interrupts.

“Come in!” Liam’s voice sings, and shooting one last glare in Niall’s oblivious direction, Louis opens the door.

The room is gorgeous as ever, the table set with Victorian style chinaware that glints amongst the sunlight and ambient lighting, fresh roses and hydrangeas overflowing out of glass vases. There are crumpets, scones, and biscuits stacked in neat little piles on elegant, gilt trays. It's marvelous. A breeze wafts through the maroon satin curtains of the windows, and Louis almost laments that the piano is sitting, untouched—a bit of music would really accent the setting perfectly.

“You’ve outdone yourself once again, Zayn,” Louis greets, and Zayn smiles from the head of the table as Liam fills his teacup.

“Louis!” Liam beams, looking up with a glimmering smile and starched shirt.

“Hello, hello. This here’s—“ Louis starts before:

“Heeey, mates! Good to see you again,” Niall belts, smacking a handshake to Zayn’s gentle hands and repeating the gesture with Liam who looks utterly delighted.

“Good to see you, Horan! How’s the old man?” Liam asks with jolly etiquette.

Niall grins in that way that suggests he’s on the verge of barking laughter, hands splayed on his hips, and stance dominant. The dragon is out to play. “He’s great. Stop by and see him any time! He’s usually at the studio. You know.”

“I do, and I really must. It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper sit down.” Liam’s words are perfectly articulated, his accent sickeningly posh, and Louis wonders if he learned how to read by way of an etiquette manual.

Unlike Niall, with his chunky Rolex and huge white shoes and agape mouth.

“Yeah. He actually likes you, so he’d enjoy that. You can bring Bill along!”

“What an excellent idea! Father hasn’t socialized in forever—the business has kept him so busy. He’d love to see Jonathan again.”

Dear lord.

“I told you he’s only friends with middle-aged men,” Zayn smirks at Louis as he brings the teacup to his perfect lips.

Louis stares at the pair as they talk, completely out of his element. “Fair enough. Well, then. Tea?” He sits down to the right of Zayn, just like that very first luncheon, and immediately holds his cup up to Liam expectantly, batting his eyelashes.

Liam grins and pours from his teapot immediately as Niall takes a seat beside Louis.

“Thank you,” Louis smiles, then brings the cup up to his lips and takes a large gulp. And nearly spits it out. “What the hell??” he splutters, almost dropping the priceless fixture.

“What’s wrong?” Liam asks, alarmed.

“Is this whiskey?” Louis coughs, clutching his throat in alarm.

Zayn smiles smokily. “Don’t be daft, Louis. It’s Darjeeling and scotch.”

Oh, obviously.

“Are you sure there’s Darjeeling?”

Zayn looks up at Liam who shrugs. “I put a bit in, I think.”

“You _think?”_

“This is fuckin’ delicious!” Niall suddenly boasts, guzzling his cup like it were water.

Louis stares, his own throat still burning.

That boy.

“Not all of us came out of the womb with a bottle of whiskey,” Louis glares, secretly marveling at the way he refills his teacup instantly and pours it down his throat without even a blink of the eye.

“Thatta boy,” Zayn smirks, and offers Niall a cigar.

“Oh, excellent. Is this a Black Petite Lancero?” Niall inquires, bringing the thing to his nose to sniff for no apparent reason. Louis will never understand the ways of the rich.

“It is. The only kind I like. In August, at least,” Zayn adds, and his smile widens at Niall’s cackling laughter.

“Cheers, mate,” Niall laughs, raising his teacup.

The china clinks as they meet, sending Liam into little sugary smiles as he takes a bite of a croissant, while Louis looks between the two, eyebrows raised. How is it that Niall becomes best mates with every. single. person. that’s in the same room as him? And just what the fuck is a ‘Black Petite Lancero’?

“You really are the social little butterfly, aren’t you?” Louis sighs, shaking his head as Niall grabs a fistful of scones.

Niall shrugs, and begins slathering on the jam. “I’d like to think I'm more of a dragonfly and less of a butterfly, but it’s all good, mate.”

And Louis is just about to deliver a witty response when suddenly Niall’s gaze focuses on something just beyond Louis’ shoulder.

“Harry, mate!” he exclaims, immediately standing up and walking towards the source of all evil.

Louis turns around to see Harry gliding into the room, wearing a pale yellow suit, a prominent Native American necklace (this one looks  a bit more like a dream catcher) and his signature bow tie, looking very much like the cat who got the cream.

And oh, would you look at that. He’s brought guests again—this time a beautiful boy and a beautiful girl.

How endearing.

“Niall Horan,” Harry greets in his velveteen voice, shaking hands and smiling charmingly. “How are you, m’boy?”

“Not as good as you apparently. Who are your guests?”

“Oh. This is Roxy and Lullaby.”

Lullaby? Someone’s name is Lullaby? Really?

“Which one’s Lullaby?” Louis asks as they stand on either side of Harry and stare at him like he’s Jesus.

But apparently Harry is still ignoring Louis’ existence.

“Let us indulge now. After you, my darlings,” Harry smiles, allowing Niall, Roxy, and Lullaby to walk ahead.

The girl is stunning, with powder blue hair and a white dress that hangs off of her bony shoulders. The boy is even more stunning, his silken gold hair tousled above lavender eyes--hello, contacts. His clothes are artfully disheveled, in the way only buckets of money can create.

“How are you, Harry?” Zayn asks and though his tone is slack, his eyes are careful.

Louis perks up as he pretends to focus on the tray of crumpets, ears alert; the question is just sincere enough to prompt his interest.

But Harry smiles easily, whipping the napkin off the table and draping it over his lap. “Marvelous. You?”

“Impeccable.”

“It’s so good to see you in good spirits,” Liam beams, and Louis glances up at Harry’s reaction which reveals nothing but shallow pleasantries.

“Isn’t he always?” Niall asks jovially, and Harry laughs, everybody smiles, and the not-exactly-tea party commences.

**

Forty-five minutes later, the tea party is cut short because everyone is drunk and Harry and Niall are demanding to play golf.

The tea-liquor has been flowing endlessly—Louis is almost positive Liam lied when he said he put Darjeeling in the teapots. It’s abso-fucking-lutely straight scotch and that’s that—and the pretty little scones and tarts aren’t enough to absorb the effects.

So the elegant tea party, with the clinking spoons and extended pinkies, has turned into a bit of a shit show, Louis’ forehead shining as he laughs heartily at a terrible joke that Liam’s just told, all the while trying to take a picture together which, to be honest, Louis isn’t even good at doing when sober.

Zayn is also rather inebriated, slung over Roxy and Lullaby like they were stairway railings, apparently relaying the plots of his favorite books from the sounds of it, his hair falling out of place and suit jacket crinkling.

And then there’s Niall and Harry, arms gripping each other as they sing pub songs and dance wildly, teacups thrust in the air, the light brown liquid sloshing out over the sides and peppering the wooden floors, providing a death trap for any passerby.

And it’s only about 4:30 pm.

“Let’s go golfing!” Niall suddenly suggests in bursting tones, and Harry is right behind him, chanting the same sentence, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“Golfing? I fucking hate golfing!” Louis protests, arm still around Liam’s neck. He catches Harry’s eyes which have now settled on him, and he throws as good a glare as he gets. The bastard.

“We can watch while we drink more tea?” Liam suggests, pouring the remains into his awaiting cup. “Actually, sod it—let’s just bring some vermouth.”

“Or wine,” Zayn drawls with wet lips.

“Or both,” Louis corrects, and Liam grins with delight, eyes squinting.

“I’ll go golfing, Niall,” Zayn says, finally disengaging himself from Harry’s guests.

“Excellent!” Harry thunders, grinning wildly. “Roxy? Lullaby? You must join.  I’ll need moral support if I lose,” he grins wickedly.

“You won’t lose, baby,” the boys purrs, just as the girl giggles, “I’ve got you, love.”

“I’m in good hands,” Harry smirks, and wraps them into his embrace.

Louis gags.

“Let’s go!” Niall then shouts, bouncing toward the door. “I’ll call Nelson!”

“Who’s Nelson?” Harry laughs, brow furrowed.

“My driver!”

“Excellent!” Liam celebrates, and one by one they pile out of the room, Harry grabbing a fistful of flowers on the way out. “For ambiance” he explained when Zayn shot him a look.

And Louis prepares himself for the worst.

**

Golfing fucking blows.

It’s boring, it’s quiet, and Louis can’t be fussed to even pay attention, instead passing a wine bottle back and forth with Liam who is giggly and silly and keeps asking Louis if he wants to climb trees. Louis doesn’t climb, he get’s climbed on.

“It’s getting dark,” Louis muses through a slur, getting drunker by the minute as he watches Harry “teach” his blonde boy how to golf. As if it’s that hard to swing a damn pole.

“It is. We should go soon. Find a party or something,” Liam smiles, leaning back in the golf cart luxuriously.

“Let’s lie on the grass. My butt hurts.”

Liam chuckles and shakes his head. “Grass stains, Louis. Let’s stay up here.”

“Grass stains? You wanted to climb a bloody tree a minute ago!”

“We wouldn’t have been in the grass.”

“No, just rubbing off on dirty bark.”

And Liam bursts into giggles and covers his face as Louis moves to the ground anyway.

Amidst even more raucous laughter and shouted cheers to the boys on the field, they pass the wine bottle back and forth as the burnt orange sun fades to stars, every once in awhile Niall running over to tackle Louis.

**

Finally, they leave.

“Where to now?” Harry asks slowly, lips crimson and eyes bright as he leans against his boy, the girl rubbing his shoulders. She moves to sneak a hand through his hair but he bats her away without a word, eyes cross.  

“A pub?” Niall offers, helping Louis up off the ground.

Louis smiles cheekily and dabs a quick kiss to Niall’s nose before flitting away, out of reach.

Harry briefly watches them before flicking his eyes away.

“Let’s go to a party. Zayn, love, what’s a good party for tonight?” Liam asks, embracing Zayn and staring up at him lovingly.

Zayn smiles in his drunken haze, rubbing his hand clumsily along Liam’s back. “There’s one at the Kanes' summer house?” he suggests, smiling loosely and fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette case.

“Perfect,” Liam coos, nuzzling him.

“Well , let’s go, then!” Louis exclaims (and he really shouldn’t, should instead be suggesting that they all go home and study and take showers, but oh well) before leading the pack away, thrusting his wine bottle into the air and singing Celine Dion without an ounce of shame.

**

The drive to the Kanes’ is a blurry mess of shadow and laughter.

They clink glasses in the back of Niall’s limo before every drink. Niall guffaws at every word said in between shots, Zayn laughs just as heartily but silently while clutching his fedora, Liam giggles and fidgets in his seat, pelting corks at them all, and Harry thunders out a raspy:

“TONIGHT IS OURS, LADS!”

Roxy and Lullaby are on his lap, pouring champagne into his mouth and locking their fingers in his bow tie and necklace. As one, everybody cheers at Harry’s words—except Louis—and another round is poured, courtesy of Liam.

And though Louis could do without the disturbing image of Harry sticking his tongue down Roxy and Lullaby’s throats (Louis’ still not sure which one’s which) he can’t really complain when he’s sat in the back of a limo with his three mates, drinking champagne, on his way to what is promised to be a smashing party.

So he toasts the night and laughs before Niall wraps him in a headlock.

**

The house is gorgeous.

It’s enormous, it sits amongst elaborate gardens, it has balconies and terraces, and the floors inside are marble and polished to perfection. It’s fucking incredible, and if Louis wasn’t so drunk, he would be speechless.

“THIS IS SO FUCKING HUGE!” he shouts over the booming noise as soon as they boys enter, immediately greeted by a young man wearing spandex, holding a tray of pink shots.

“It’s not that big!” Niall shouts back, taking three of the offered shots and gulping them in mind-bending succession.

“You would say that.” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Come on then, boys!” Liam shouts, glee written clear all over his face as he takes Zayn’s hand and charges forward without hesitation. Within seconds they’re completely lost in the sea of beautifully dressed people and bubbles that are pouring from nowhere.

“I told you he was crazy!” Niall laughs, avoiding the heavier masses of people dancing and skirting the edges.

“Oh, I’m becoming increasingly aware. But I must say, I’m surprised you’re not crowd surfing with the best of ‘em, Nialler!”

Niall pulls a face and shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t like crowds. Here’s good.”

Louis nods, catching sight of Harry—who now has three new playmates draped all over him—and willing himself to resist the urge to spy.

Which fails.

Harry presses deep kisses to every mouth around him, giving his lips a wet sheen that glows sickly under the flickering, rainbow lights. He stumbles a bit, slamming every drink at hand down his throat and laughing loud enough for the heavens to hear. Occasionally Louis will hear a random shout of “Harold!” as swarms upon swarms rush to meet him, sliding their hands over his back and chest, some attempting to touch his hair which Harry rebuffs every time (odd), laughing at his quips and ravenously eating up his dimpled smiles.

It’s disgusting, really.

These people clearly worship him. And though Louis despises the boy, he’s not dumb—he can see the appeal. He’s utterly beautiful, charming, well-dressed, eccentric, and seemingly docile. He’s got good manners and an impressive IQ and dimples that last for days.

But Louis’ not sure if these people even see that much. They certainly don’t seem aware that he’s a human being (which he might not be, to be fair) as they clutch and grab him, stuffing their phones in his faces and wrapping arms around his waist like he were a prop, ready to be manhandled.

Harry doesn’t seem to mind too much, though. His face is still plastered with a smile, eyes still sightless and posed as he accommodates them all and licks salt off of their collarbones and…snorts cocaine?

Louis squints his eyes as he watches, Harry tilting his head back and inhaling deeply.

Yep.

With a roll of the eyes, Louis turns back to Niall and they depart to the other side of the house, far away from Harry Styles.

**

Swirling bodies, dancing bodies, neon lights, glistening jewelry, and curls of smoke fill Louis’ senses.

Perfectly coiffed hair bounces in time to the beat, Louis Vuitton blending against Burberry, and glitter falls from the ceilings.

“I want to spend the rest of my life here!” Louis praises, his head swimming and his limbs light.

“Are you sure?” Niall laughs, bouncing up and down, his polo nearly soaked through and his eyelashes sparkling. “Forever’s a long time!”

Because oh yeah, they’re immortal and untouchable and everything is life.

So Louis laughs and twirls around, hands outstretched to the heavens as glitter falls and catches on his sweaty skin, coating him in stars.

**

Louis can’t find the fucking bathroom. And if he doesn’t find it soon, he’s just going to wee in the rose bushes.

He’s been opening every door he can find, only stumbling upon closets, pantries, and studies. And, now, a very intimate scene.

“My bad,” Louis apologizes, instantly shielding his eyes before shutting the door with a snap.

He spins around, ready to all but run away, when he’s met with a broad chest and a Native American necklace.

Fuck.

“Careful,” Harry warns, taking a step back from Louis and glaring, his curls sticking to his forehead. He smells fucking amazing, but it only serves to anger Louis more.

“Oh get over yourself,” Louis scoffs, and is just about to walk past him when Harry catches his arm. He looks up, eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”

“Stop acting like you’re better than me,” Harry growls, but his voice wavers the tiniest bit, pupils wide and inebriated under a furrowed brow, his fingers digging into Louis’ warm flesh.

Louis shakes his head, eyes slitted. “Then stop being you.”

Harry retracts his hand like he’s been burnt, scowling at Louis with that intensity that he only displays when he’s agitated; Louis wonders if all of Harry’s emotions would be that passionate if he wasn’t barren of emotions and life. Perhaps that’s why he’s only a shell—he’s too much for himself.

“You don’t know me,” Harry deadpans, straightening his back and smoothing out his features.

“I think I do, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and allows his glare to fade, replacing it with pitying disapproval. “You drown yourself in pretty words and champagne and fuck knows what kind of drugs. You shag everything that walks. You only listen and care about yourself, and you feel nothing for the world. You watch people love you and you love nothing in return,” Louis says lowly, disgusted, the alcohol and fury gripping his bones and spurring his tongue.

Harry stares back beneath the flickering lights, shadows deep beneath his eyes, expression unreadable. “Love?” he asks with wry distaste.

Louis merely stares in response, chest squared, adrenaline ebbing.

Harry’s mouth twists into a sickly grin, eyes colder than he’s ever seen them—which is saying something.

“Haven’t you heard, Louis Tomlinson? Each man kills the thing he loves.” His grin fades. “The coward with a kiss.” He takes a step closer to Louis, his alcohol soaked breath and expensive cologne suffocating the air. “The brave man with a sword.” He finishes in an almost-whisper, the corner of his lips quirked into a sneer.

But it’s his eyes that Louis sees. Those eyes that cut through glass.

They’re wide now. They’re wide, they’re pained, and they stare back at Louis with something that feels alarmingly like reality.  

And Louis can only look back, desperately searching the mournful green gaze before him, wishing he could climb inside and pick apart this boy’s brain, delve into the depths and discover _what went wrong_.

But in an instant Harry’s gone, and only the thump of music and Louis’ very full bladder remain.

**

“Let’s get going!” Niall shouts sometime later, just as Louis’ buzz begins to wear off and his limbs feel heavy.

“Where’s Liam and Zayn?”

“I just saw Liam jumping into the pool like a fuckin’ madman. I think they’re gonna be here for awhile.”

Louis nods. “All right. I’ll say goodbye to them.”

Niall looks at him, puzzled. “Why?”

“So they know we’re leaving.”

He blinks. “Uh. Okay…?”

Not understanding what Niall’s not understanding, Louis just throws him a funny look before departing for the pool. And yep, there’s Zayn on the sidelines, watching a splashing Liam with fondness as he sucks on a cigarette and bathes in moonlight.

“We’re going to head back,” Louis says upon reaching him.

“Excellent, mate. You’ve got a bit of…” Zayn motions to Louis’ glitter-soaked limbs.

He laughs, giving a shrug. “What can I say? I look better with a bit of sparkle.”

Zayn smiles and shakes his head, moving his cigarette to his mouth and clapping Louis’ hand in his. “Have a good night, Louis man. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, just text me,” Louis smiles, and then offers one last departing wave to Liam who is in the process of doing a cannonball.

He turns back into the house, weaving through the hoards of people, and is just about to turn the corner, when the door across from him opens.

Harry stumbles out, hair mussed, lipstick marks coating the line of his jaw and peppering the sharp angles of his collarbone. He’s tucking his ripped open shirt in with clumsy hands, fly half-done, with eyes that glint in conquest. He sneers a cold grin at Louis before wiping the remnants of coke off of his nose with the back of his hand, then disappears once more into the sea of people without a backward glance, his diamond Chanel watch glowing neon.

_“Each man kills the thing he loves.”_

Louis hears the coarse words echoed in the back of his mind as he turns in disgust and sets out to find Niall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the longest story on earth, isn't it? 
> 
> But I'm just tres excited because now we're getting to the parts that I can't wait to write. And I hope you're listening to "Young and Beautiful" right now because I am and everything seems prettier somehow. 
> 
> Thank you, pretty, shiny people <3


	11. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis sees Harry and he sort of really hates it.

For the next month, Louis finds himself engaged every day with Zayn Malik and co. His days are filled with wine and cigarettes, grassy plains, pastels, and luncheons. His nights are smoke and martinis and expensive cologne and dancing and leather seats pressed against his bum as they travel the city in limos, hopping to and from destinations and toasting life with the finest beverages money can buy.

He’s grown quite fond of Zayn Malik.

With his calm demeanor, unassuming eyes, and languid movements, he finds a strange kinship with the lad; he’s poetic without being pretentious and sweet without being phony. He paints in his spare time—Louis discovering that the stacks of beautiful paintings in his rooms are actually his own—and sketches anything and everything on bits of paper he finds before slipping them into the boys’ pockets unnoticed. He’s fun and easy and creative and generous and loyal, and every day Louis finds new things to laugh about with him, and new mischief to run with.

His other partner in crime, Liam, is also becoming a necessary fixture in Louis’ life, if not for the mere fact that Liam seems to worship him. He’s clean and professional, says the right thing at all times, and has gotten the lads out of many a sticky situation. Particularly that time when Niall was discovered in the school fountain without any clothes on, unconscious and clutching a large Crockpot filled with confetti. He does it all happily, smooths over the messes with pleasantries and cordiality, and then, just when they’re back in the clear and away from the prying eyes of their superiors, he lets loose a shit show and seizes all of life’s opportunities and throws them in the air, dancing and playing amongst them like falling rain. He’s full of life and can manipulate a situation to his best advantage—as he is a stunning businessman in the making—and Louis admires the joy and kindness that seems to come so natural to him. Even if he can be a bit of a spoil sport on the odd occasion.

Still, surprisingly, Louis’ been able to keep up with his studies as well as his social life, occasionally able to successfully convince the group to hold sessions in the library or in Liam’s rooms--which are tucked in the far corner of the school, wide and very un-distracting. Louis could almost say that he’s excelling at his studies even, if it weren’t for a particularly boring course, “The Study of Prose in Victorian Era Playwrights” which does nothing for his self-esteem or patience.

But he’s pretty sure he’s at least passing that course, so he doesn’t allow himself to worry. Too much.

He’s also successfully managed to thwart off his mum (who seems to be doing all right, according to his sisters’ Facebook messages) and he’s even managed to get a bit of exercise since Liam and Niall enjoy playing football at odd hours of the day, particularly after they’ve smoked and had their evening brandy.

All in all, Louis is winning at life.

There’s only one slight catch.

And it comes in the form of a curly haired, green eyed, pompous mouthed dandy who struts around like he owns the place and flits through empty passions like he does escorts. Because yes, every single fucking time Louis sees Harry, he’s got some new conquest on his arm, some new heart for him to mangle and press against thorns.

And oh, all the “new things” he gets into…it’s enough to drive a man crazy.

At each social event, Harry manages to paint himself even more ridiculous. Whether it be his three day obsession with yellow roses (everyone had to dress in yellow, and when they attended a symphony, Harry made them all throw them on the fucking stage) or his infatuation with the word “peafowl” which spurred him to litter live fucking peacocks on the lawn of Zayn’s lake house while they played croquet (“They’re my spirit animal,” he drawled), or his particularly annoying little stint where he fell in love with antique doorknobs and refused to open any doors that did not possess them, thus forcing others to open them for him all day, every day. Louis took advantage of that one by slamming doors in his face at every opportunity he could get. It was rather marvelous, actually. That was a good 'thing'.

And then there's the parties.

The nights of excess where Harry’s walls break and he loses what little he has of himself in crowds and intoxications. The nights where he lies on couches and pours absinthe into his dripping mouth and smokes opium on velvet pillows and stumbles around with flowers in his hand, pressing glares and thinly-veiled insults into peoples’ mouths. He acts like a king, a fucking evil king, and Louis can only watch him with a growing intensity and wait for a crack in the cold, hard surface so that he can laugh and rejoice in the barely-there humanity that resides in Harry fucking Styles.

Which never comes, of course. Not really.

But through all of these little ticks, not once does Harry ever exchange a word with Louis.

He looks through him and sidles past without a word, all pretense of charm vanished. He knows it doesn’t work with Louis so he doesn’t even try. Which is wonderful, really, but Louis was never the sort that liked to be ignored, and though he can’t quite bring himself to acknowledge Harry either--the image of his haunting eyes and whispered words still resonating uncomfortably within him from their last interaction--he still finds it all very rude.

The others don’t seem to mind, don’t even seem to question the stark animosity between the pair. Especially since Niall and Harry have bonded so well—which Louis constantly berates him for. (“TRAITOR!” “He’s just fun. I still like you better.” “Damn straight. Traitor.”)

So it’s natural that Louis isn’t very nervous, at all, right now as he makes his way, alone, to Harry’s rooms. Which he has never been to before. He's not even a little bit nervous. 

They all agreed to meet there after they were done with lecture, and since Niall still has twenty minutes left of his audio course and needs to run some errands with Rory, Louis took it upon himself to embark on this perilous journey alone.

Which is fine.

So, ignoring any sense of displeasure in the pit of his stomach, Louis knocks on what he hopes is Harry’s door. It’s in a wonderful location, the rooms right above the archways near the gardens, looking out over the lake and tucked far enough away from the hubbub that it’s almost peaceful from the outside.

As Louis waits, he can only hope that he’s not the first one here. They’re supposed to go to dinner soon—some posh place that Niall insists has the best steak and whiskey in the country. Originally they were going to just meet there (which would only be logical, to be honest) but Harry’s new thing is berry cordial, and so he insisted on hosting cocktail hour before they departed.

And so here Louis is. Waiting outside of Harry Styles’ door. Dressed in an ebony knit sweater and timberwolf skinny jeans, arms crossed, and resolutely not nervous. At all.

After about 5 minutes and no answer, he considers leaving. Because does he even have the right door?

But just as he’s turning on his heel with all the flair of rejection, about to angrily text Niall, the door opens, slowly and steadily.

And it’s Harry. Scowling. Not dressed in his usual suit and bow tie which Louis has only ever seen him in…but wearing a _heart_ shirt. An actual heart shirt. It’s buttoned to the collar, deep purple, and is splattered with large white fucking _hearts._

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” Louis utters instantly, unable to stop himself, as he stares in almost-horror at the display before him.

Harry’s scowl deepens as he looks down at himself. “What?”

“Are those curtains? Surely that is not a shirt.”

A steely glare is thrust back into Louis’ face. “What are you doing here?”

Louis blinks. “We’re supposed to meet here. Remember? Cocktail hour?” He says it witheringly and, maybe, rolls his eyes a little over-exaggeratedly. 

“I said to come at four.”

“It’s four-thirty.”

“Exactly. You’re supposed to arrive an hour after the proposed time. Don’t you know anything at all?” It’s said in such an equally withering tone that Louis almost starts, the urge to slip off his shoe and beat it mercilessly over Harry’s head alarming.

Instead, he narrows his eyes. Is this one of your trite rules? Or are you seriously telling me that I’ve arrived half an hour early?”

“You’ve arrived half an hour early.”

Fuck.

So.

“Well…” Louis scratches the back of his neck, refusing to look at Harry and instead skimming his eyes over the wooden grit of the door, focusing intently on the ornate onyx hinges that are really rather finely crafted. “Should I just wait, or…?” Louis asks awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to escape the situation (and maybe sneak a shoe-bludgeon on the way out) but not really seeing the practicality of departure.

Where would he go? No point in walking all the way back to his rooms. 

Harry just shrugs, glare still present, emanating disinterest and disapproval in hefty sums. “Doesn’t matter to me. You’ll have to entertain yourself either way.”

Oh, how lovely.

“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just stay,” Louis clips with an exaggerated narrowing of the eyes, taking an aggressive step forward.

Harry opens the door and allows Louis in without another word, turning on his heel and stalking away, vanishing into an adjoining room and closing the door with a firm click. And then the sound of a lock is heard, and that’s really just overkill.  

“I’ll just make myself at home then, shall I?” Louis calls with a roll of the eyes, but he’s met with total silence.

Well. This is going to be awkward.

Luckily, Harry’s rooms are gorgeous and full of enough rubbish to keep him plenty occupied. The space is large, almost larger than Zayn’s, blood red walls and mahogany painting the atmosphere and, surprisingly, there’s no piano. Because yes—even Liam has one, plays it while Zayn stands next to him and sings like a bloody angel in Paradise.

Harry’s style is far more eccentric than Zayn’s sleek luxury; where Zayn has smooth black stereo systems and large wooden bookcases, Harry has thick velvet curtains, gramophones, record players, framed porn stills from what appears to be the ‘20’s or ‘30’s, and…cat figurines.

A lot of fucking cat figurines.

He pokes at the creepier ones, their sightless blue eyes staring under the elaborate chandeliers and afternoon light, ceramic fur pointed in all directions. He has to admit some of them are rather endearing—the pair of glass kittens with their paws mutually wrapped around a little ball of yarn are really rather heartwarming—but for the most part they’re unnerving and the fact that there isn’t a speck of dust on them indicates they’re well cared for.

Which Louis doesn’t know how to feel about.

He continues slowly sweeping through the room, examining the shelves stuffed with worn books (like Zayn, Harry seems to collect only first and vintage editions) and swipes his fingers over their tired leather spines, titles barely visible under the stress of time. He notes the rather generous collection of Oscar Wilde books, and briefly wonders if Harry has enough substance in him to truly appreciate such works, or if he keeps it all as a pretense, a distraction, or a conversation starter.

Probably all three.

It’s just as he’s about to take a seat in the vermilion chaise longue (that’s sat next to a tiny, ornate wooden table cluttered with half-drunk bottles of liquor, various stemware milling about) that he hears the sudden click of a lock and the opening of a door.

He turns in time to see a beautiful blonde dressed in a rumpled gold dress, dangling her sleek pumps in one hand, combing her hair with the other. Harry follows immediately behind her, a satin magenta robe draped over his hideous heart shirt and black trousers, feet bare.

“Bye, Harold,” the girl purrs, and presses a kiss to his cheek which he doesn’t even come close to acknowledging, instead focusing his stare on Louis, who merely stares back.

Without Harry even giving a glance in her direction, the girl leaves, the door softly shutting behind her.

Harry continues to stare at Louis, a martini now in his hand. Does he have fucking house elves? Where do all these prepared drinks come from?

“I’ve changed my mind. I want you to leave now,” is all he says, lips pressed against the cold glass, eyes simultaneously bored and cutting.

What the actual fuck did he just say?

“Sorry?”

“You can return once the others have arrived,” he says in a sighing drawl, his boredom and entitlement practically oozing out of every orifice.

Louis smirks, planting himself down on the chaise longue without a blink. “You’re very funny.”

Harry’s eyes flash momentarily, watching as Louis makes himself more comfortable in the most over-the-top manner that he can manage. “You know that I can have you removed. By force, if necessary. I have a variety of options and none of them are any trouble to me.”

“I don’t think you understand how little that fazes me, Curly. And yes, I’d love a drink.” Without breaking eye contact, Louis grabs the nearest glass from the table and extends it expectantly at Harry, glancing pointedly at the champagne bottle to his left.

And that’s it, Louis thinks. That’s all that Harry is going to take; instead of just walking away or sending a scathing comment, he will instead punch Louis in the face, upending furniture and losing his fucking mind. And Louis almost _wants_ it. He wants to justify the all-consuming hatred he has for this boy, wants to rationalize to himself why he focuses, why he cares, why he sets aside time to just think about how much Harry fucking Styles _bothers_ him.

So Louis braces himself, a hand already on the cherry wood armrest (if you can call it that), ready to defend and attack.

But it doesn’t happen.

Instead, _instead_ , Harry continues staring, eyes cold and assessing, before picking up the bottle and slowly walking over to Louis unblinkingly.

He’s going to dump it over Louis’ head. He’s going to spill it in his face and laugh and then probably crack the bottle over his skull and then—

But Harry pours the champagne into Louis’ offered glass.

And Louis’ jaw almost fucking drops because _what?_

He stares, probably gaping (but he hopes not) as Harry pours and stares back; he’s almost impressed with the fluidity of Harry’s actions as he pours champagne unseeingly, eyes still intent on Louis, and is still more impressed when he manages to cut the flow at the precise moment Louis’ glass is filled.

And now Louis really doesn’t know how to react, with Harry standing in front of him silently, wearing a tacky shirt and a creepy robe and an expression that’s caught somewhere between disgust and curiosity, his rose lips pressed into themselves, his curls mussed and hazy in the sunlight.

“Thank you,” Louis mutters quietly, a little out of sorts, and Harry nods his acknowledgment before setting down the bottle.

Harry seems to be on the brink of saying something further, lips opening just barely, when suddenly his pocket vibrates, cutting the awkwardness of the room.

Louis sends a prayer of thanks to the heavens.

They both glance down as one, and while Louis prays that it’s Zayn informing him that he’s outside the door (hah), Harry’s expression instantly falls as he looks at the screen. Which is odd, really, to look that physically distressed about a phone call.

Louis’ on the verge of asking who it is, but then Harry silences it, looking back up at Louis with a stark paleness that wasn’t there before, even as his features smooth back into indifference, albeit with difficulty.

“Help yourself,” is all he says in a surprisingly quiet tone, words mumbled and slow in their monotony before he turns slowly and makes for the other room, once again shutting the door.

But this time there’s no click of the lock, and Louis almost wonders if they’ve just made some insignificant form of progress in their relationship, despite the random and mysterious caller.

He hopes not.

**

It’s been half an hour and Niall isn’t texting him back and Zayn and Liam are still not here.

And Harry is still in his room.

Which is fine and all, but Louis has already drank too much spare liquor and poked at too many of Harry’s stuffed animals--because, yep, he discovered a stash of them in the farther corner of the room, wearing little hats and monocles as they sat atop dark leather chests. He also discovered a tiara not too long after, every ounce of his willpower coming in to play as he resisted putting it on and strutting around taking selfies.

Okay, so maybe he did actually do that. But it was literally only one selfie, and he only sent it to Stan because, well, he just had to. On a moral level.

It’s just as Louis is drifting back to his chaise longue for more bored lounging and staring out of the window (owl stuffed animal in tow—it’s eyes are just too wide and adorable to not cuddle and he’s got shit else for company anyways) when he hears the faint tinkling of piano keys.

Of fucking course.

Are pianos handed out at birth?

But Louis has enough liquor in him to provide a pleasant buzz and since the living room doesn’t have much to offer that he hasn’t already dissected, he makes his way towards the sound and presses his ear against the cool wood of Harry’s door.

The tune is lilting and sweet and unfamiliar, almost sad by nature while still bearing undertones of hope. It’s rather lovely, really, and as Louis listens, closing his eyes and absorbing the textures of sound, he feels an undeniable urge for _more_.

So, mind addled by champagne and a few sips of gin, he silently turns the doorknob and eases the door open.

He’s immediately greeted with the sight of Harry sat at a large chestnut piano, head lightly bent. His hands—which are out of Louis’ line of sight, buried beneath the strong lines of the frame—seem to move deftly and gracefully, his quiet eyes following their movement. The satin of his robe catches in the soft rays of light streaming from the line of windows behind him, contrasting against the powder blue shadows of the room (the lights are off) and mingling his skin in multi-tones and angles.

Louis stares.

It’s not like when Niall plays.

Niall’s whole life is like a bursting light shining endlessly on all that surrounds it, but when he’s immersed in his instruments and music, his whole being calms. Instead of the raucous energy and life that pours from him, the shining beacon of life that is Niall Horan dims as he plays piano, his energy focused and quiet.

It’s the opposite with Harry.

Harry, who is all cardboard smiles and vacant eyes, the very personification of 'the light’s on but nobody’s home' in the most gruesome sense, positively alights when he plays. Not that he’s smiling or anything. No, Harry doesn’t look any less miserable than usual. But there’s something indefinably different about him. There’s a trueness, a genuineness, a passionate intent within him that glows to the surface, leaving him wrecked and real, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the shadows.

It’s like all of those flickers of _something_ that Louis sees in Harry’s eyes whenever he’s agitated—here they are, spelled out and assembled in the flesh.

For the first time, Harry Styles looks consistently like a person. He looks like a boy. And Louis can’t look away.

But then the keys start to jumble.

Louis almost doesn’t notice at first, the unnerving beauty of the moment dulling his senses, but then the unmistakable odd “clank” of a key mars the simple melody, and Louis’ eyes flash up to meet with Harry’s face and—

Oh fuck.

His cheeks are wet.

There are streams, thick, hot streams of tears pouring down his face, blurring his vision, pressing his long eyelashes to his cheeks in clumps, and though Harry has absolutely no idea that Louis is there as he silently plays and weeps, Louis feels ashamed watching the spectacle.

Because Harry Styles is crying (he’s human? what?) and it’s something that Louis has dreamt about in his darkest hour. But now that it’s actually happening...it’s not satisfying at all. It’s fucking heartbreaking. And the tiny sniffles and the glistening cheeks caught between shadow and light fill Louis with an indescribable sorrow that he can’t even begin to place.

He’s about to turn away, he is, but then Harry stops playing altogether, and he grips the frame of the piano with one hand, turning his face away.

Louis studies his profile, can see the tears even more clearly, and he feels utterly helpless and trapped, because _what does he do?_ What is _happening??_

So he just stands there frozen and watches as Harry’s eyes close, sending another surge of salty drops down his face. He bows his head under the weight of his own thoughts and slides a hand through his curls, gripping the ends tight and tugging in what appears to be agonized frustration, his frame beginning to rock back and forth in gentle sways.

Louis just wants to pull his hand away and yell at him to stop because _what the fuck_ , but instead he just stares with wide eyes, and Harry’s tiny sobs fill the room as he winds his hair tighter around trembling fingers like a small, abandoned child.

Louis is speechless, frozen, and very, very inexplicably distressed, to the point of needing to touch, to comfort, even if he doesn’t know why or what for.

So he goes to take a step forward.

And then Harry’s phone rings.

With truly alarming speed, Harry wipes the tears away with the sleeve of his shirt, his features immediately assembling into a fixed calm. He swallows, takes a few gulps of air with shaky lips, then shakes the hair out of his eyes as he answers and brings the phone up to his ear in one smooth movement.

“Zayn, darling,” he greets, and his voice bears no trace of the previous scene.

It makes Louis feel sicker somehow, his nausea eating away at his stomach lining and poking at his brain in the quiet, guilty corners.

“Yes, of course.” Pause. “No rush, love. I gladly await your impeccable arrival. Do wear the colors of the berries—they’re the only tones that I can understand right now.” Pause. “That will do just fine. Pass the message to Liam. And tell the boy to stop talking over me.” Pause. “Yes, Louis is here.”

Louis feels a spike up his spine at hearing his name on Harry’s lips. It’s odd really, as it’s not the first time he’s said it, but it’s jarring and it jolts Louis’ nerves into wakefulness and he prays, prays, prays that Harry doesn’t look over.

“Of course,” Harry continues, and he rubs a hand over his eye. “Yes, darling, that sounds perfect. I’ll see you soon. I suggest purple, by the by. It compliments your complexion ever so wonderfully.” And Harry says goodbye with a smile while Louis rolls his eyes and he sets his phone down quietly. His features are still, no longer smiling but no longer pained, instead resting within a frailty that seems perfect enough to paint.

Fearing for his own life if Harry discovers him, Louis forces himself to exit, slowly shutting the door with all the silence his slight frame is capable of.

Dumbly, he walks back to the chaise longue and sits, feet on the floor and elbows resting on his knees, and he just stares, nausea still present as his head spins, less so because of the alcohol, more so because of Harry Styles and his fucking tears.

He sinks his head into his hands and prays for Zayn’s speedy arrival.

Because tonight is already too hard to handle, and he sure as hell can’t stand to be alone with his thoughts right now.

**

Eventually all the boys arrive (Niall being last because he insisted on purchasing a segway) and after berry cordial and various cocktails and hard liquor are distributed (Niall refuses to intake anything but straight alcohol and labels the rest as “juice”) they depart for a very expensive and lavish dinner that is just as fulfilling as Niall had promised.

Everybody’s happy, Zayn musing over his cigarettes at Louis’ complaints about all the bitches in his courses (some people need to sit the fuck down) while Liam giggles at everything and stares in almost-awe, hand on Zayn’s leg.

Harry is the happiest of them all. Well. “Happiest.”

He fills everyone’s drinks and laughs through his napkin and toasts the sky, the stars, the world, and fixes his bow tie (yes, he changed, is now decked in a lavender suit, a sprig of berries pinned to his lapel) with jeweled fingers that don’t tremble, and Louis feels sick watching it all.

Because it’s fake, he knows now just how fake, and with every loud laugh that Harry emits, every toothy grin that fills the room, every strokes of Zayn’s arm and every clink of his glass against Niall’s, Louis envisions the shrouded boy at the piano, tears washing his face.

But he doesn’t care, can’t care, so he washes his thoughts down with steak and potatoes, berating Niall for purchasing a segway.

“You’re not coming home tonight, and I’ll make sure Rory knows it, Ireland!”

"Ireland? Did you just call me Ireland?"

And so Louis very firmly pushes away every thought that threatens to surface.

**

It's as they were driving back to school, stuffed into Zayn’s antique car, the moonlight filling the sky above their heads as the cool night wind whipped wetly against their skin, that Liam suggests a party.

“I’ve been getting texts all day about it. It’s supposed to be quite fun?”

“Well, it is Friday,” Louis reasons with a mischievous smile, and Zayn smirks at him in the rear view mirror.

“My thoughts exactly, Louis,” he mutters, hands resting lightly on the wheel as he winds them through cobbled roads. “Party it is.”

“Excellent,” Harry grins, whipping out his phone. “I’ve been meaning for an excuse to ring some people.”

“Since when do you need an excuse?” Zayn counters with a glance back at Harry.

“Never,” he shrugs with a large smile, “but it’s only polite to do so.”

Niall barks his laughter, sliding his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “You’ve got balls of brass, you do!” he roars heartily, and Harry joins him in laughter, pleased with the accolade and tilting his head back.

Louis watches him, pressed on the other side of Niall in the back, and only briefly feels a stirring in his chest before returning his gaze to the front.

“Let’s make tonight the best yet, all right, lads?” he says with an eyebrow raise and an easy grin.

Zayn grins out a, “All right, Louis,” while Liam claps like a dolphin and nods enthusiastically, Niall swinging his fists into the air and Harry roaring wordless noise to the void of the sky above them.

At least Louis can always count on distractions when his thought become too much. And tonight he is in dire need of just that.

**

The party is one of the more wild ones, stuffed into a penthouse and emitting smoke, beautiful people, and flashing lights.

There are trays of crystal glasses filled with absinthe and cognac, people in ornate, glittering masks, a band whose members are clad in leather and body paint, and lines of cocaine lie between scattered diamond jewelry and pocket watches on every available surface.

Perhaps on a normal day Louis would find it fun; today, it only serves to disgust him.

He spends his night awkwardly trailing after Niall since, once again, Liam carried Zayn into the swirling masses and was never seen again. He bounces rather than walks, meeting girl after girl and making them laugh in that pitching way that is nothing but forced.

Louis' aware that he’s salting Niall’s game, always peering over his shoulder cynically at the newest hanger-on, and while at first he felt indifferent to his stunning lack of manners, he is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

“I should probably leave you to it,” he says as the sixth girl in a row wanders off after throwing a steely glare his way.

“Probably,” Niall agrees, but shrugs. “But I don’t mind much. Fuck all that, I just want to have a good time. Whatever that fuckin’ entails, you know? Don’t feel the need to leave if you don’t want to. I mean it, Tommo.”

Louis smiles and nods (is Niall ever not blunt and completely uncomplicated?) and is so touched by Niall’s loyalty and sun that he claps a hand to his shoulder and says, “I think I’ll let you take this one, Ireland. Come find me when you’re bored, all right? I’m going to explore and see if there’s anything I can steal.” With one last wink he sends a wave, calling out a departing, “Charm the ladies and all that!” as he walks away, leaving a grinning Niall who shakes his head in amusement.

Because maybe Louis does need to be alone right now. Because maybe this distraction isn’t cutting it. Because he’s currently wondering, obsessively, where Harry is.

And it needs to stop.

**

Louis spends the rest of the night outside on the balcony, leaned against the wall and staring up at the sky which does nothing but stare back.

He attempts to sing, hum, and drink, all with the intention to steer his thoughts into distraction, but he’s still left with one name on the tip of his tongue, and it eats away at him as he checks his phone, silently praying for Niall to send him a “Let’s get out of here and get stoned.”

But it never comes.

So after four fucking hours, as the roar from the inside dies down and the stumbling balcony intruders (this is Louis’ place of sanctuary and nobody else’s) lessens to nothing, he decides it’s time to force Niall to leave. Because really.

Pocketing his message-less phone and rubbing the boredom out of his eyes, he steps back inside, seeking out Niall or Zayn or Liam with increasingly desperate eyes.

But it comes to no avail.

And after he’s searched the place as thoroughly as one unfamiliar with it could, he gives up, standing in the middle of a trashed room with beer splashed on the floors, soggy streamers swirling in the ruddy liquid, crushed masks and cups underfoot. Everything smells stale and the remnants of smoke still cling to the air, only serving to frustrate and disgust Louis more.

 _‘Where are you?’_ he texts Niall, and his eyes can barely focus on the brightness of the screen, his limbs weighed down with exhaustion and spent attitude.

Because fuck. He just wants to go home. And he really doesn’t know exactly how to go about that.

Luckily, he has famous friends.

The place is surprisingly empty given the time—he wonders if everybody just migrated to somewhere even better? But at the first straggler he sees, he grabs her sweaty arm, setting imploring eyes on the brunette girl before him.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Niall Horan by any chance?”

The girl smiles dazedly. “Nope, sorry, love. Not since, like, three hours ago.”

Shit.

“How about Zayn Malik?”

“Oh. Yeah. He and Liam Payne just left, actually.”

And Louis stares.

Fuck.

“Ah. I don’t suppose I could still catch them?”

“Doubt it. They were getting in the car when I last saw them. Sorry,” she shrugs, and sends one last hazy smile in his direction before walking away.

Great.

Fucking great.

So now what?

Frustrated at the helplessness of the situation--and when exactly did Louis become helpless and why hadn’t he prepared for situations like this?--he meanders from room to room, hoping to find a clue that will spark some sort of solution within him.

But instead of finding a solution he finds Harry Styles.

He’s there, right there across the room, barely conscious and being held up by a string of socialites in sweaty, hanging clothes that look far too expensive and bland. They grip him from all sides, rubbing their hands over him like he’s shiny (Louis suspects Ecstasy at the very least), turning his barely opened eyes towards them, and pressing cold, flushed lips against his slack face.

Something alarming burns in the bottom of Louis’ stomach as he watches, and before he quite knows what he’s doing, he’s marching towards the slew of leeches.

Their voices become clearer, reaching Louis’ ears over the remnants of shitty pop music flowing through the speakers, sneaking through the clouds of smoke that hang weakly.

“I want him,” a pretty redhead slurs, eyes wide and glassy as she slides a hand beneath Harry’s jacket.

A young boy, probably no more than sixteen, glares at her, shoving her hand away as he grips Harry’s hand tightly. “I want him!”

“C’mon mate, you’ve already had him,” another boy complains, and begins tugging at Harry’s jacket in a way that makes Louis sick.

He stares at the scene before him in horror, barely comprehending the fact these people are currently tugging on Harry Styles like he’s a ragdoll, pulling at him from all sides and touching every bit of him without an ounce of respect. And it’s even more horrifying that Harry isn’t even really there, too intoxicated in whatever it is he’s flooded himself with that night as his weight passes from person to person, his eyes blearily peering into space and intermittently closing, mouth lightly hanging open, and sweat covering his skin.

And fuck no.

This is not okay.

“All right, people, all right,” Louis thunders, plowing into the sweaty mass of harpies. “Hands off, hands off.” He swats them away, one by one, as they mewl their protests and send cutting looks his way.

The one boy barrels up to him, chest squared and seeming on the verge of violence.

“Who says you can have him?” he grumbles, voice low and rich with stale vodka.

Louis scrunches his nose in disgust at the odor—as well as his face—and rolls his eyes as he wraps Harry’s arm around his neck, gripping his waist with the other.

“I’ve already paid for him,” he says in his most sarcastic of tones, and offers forth such sass that he expects a full blown fight right there and then.

But, to his complete horror, the boy’s eyes fill with comprehension.

“Oh. Sorry, mate, I didn’t know.”

And Louis wants to fucking puke at the fact that he was taken seriously.

Gritting his teeth against all the things he wants to say (because that won’t help right now, he just needs to get Harry out of here) he sends one last filthy glare in their direction, allowing himself only a, “Fucking parasites,” as he stumbles away.

This still doesn’t solve his problem of being stranded—might have complicated it even more—but he doesn’t care, instead focusing on the sheer difficulty of supporting this lanky puppet that reeks of sweat and flowers, head rolling on his shoulders as he barely manages to put one foot in front of the other.

“I’m so glad you over-indulge, Curly. It’s really great. Just an overall splendid idea,” he grits, meandering him over to the elevator.

The doors slide open with a slick ease, allowing them entry into the golden cubicle and Louis pushes the button of the main floor with more force than is necessary.

“M’name’s Harold,” Harry suddenly mumbles in a low tone, lips barely opening. “Not ‘Curly.’”

And Louis almost wants to sing at that, because fuck, Harry is conscious and Harry has connections. Notably, a car service.

“Curly! Harry. Harold. Excellent, you’re alive. All right then, tell me how I can get us home. Because I actually don’t possess slaves.”

He can see the very faint furrowing of Harry’s brow (and Louis considers it an achievement that, even in a state of near unconsciousness, he can still make Harry scowl) but Harry cooperates with a, “’S in my phone. Under ‘Driver.’”

And isn’t that tidy.

“Of course it is,” Louis grumbles, but slides Harry’s phone out of his pocket all the same, finding the name with ease and ringing him in a manner that he hopes doesn’t convey how fucking emotionally taxed he is. All the while Harry mumbling nothings into his shoulder as he fades in and out.

**

When “Driver” drops them off in front of the school, Louis is already on the verge of mental collapse, having had to endure Harry’s body weight for far too long (and his grumbles and near-hisses in his drunken confusion on the ride over) and briefly wonders how horrible it would be if he just left him outside.

But, of course, his conscience takes over, and so Louis hoists Harry the rest of the way until they successfully reach his rooms—which are unfairly far from Louis and Niall’s.

It’s awkward, having to support the almost-dead weight of Harry Styles as he meanders through the dark of a flat he only just became acquainted with today. He stumbles, feet catching on spare furniture and sharp corners, and at one point he almost drops Harry into a pile of cacti which are congregated inconveniently close to the walkway. And while it would have been hilarious (and why does Harry have cacti anyway?) Louis can’t think of anything worse than drawing this process out longer than it needs to be, and so he sends a prayer of thanks to the heavens as he kicks open Harry’s bedroom door, stumbles past the piano without one glance in its direction, and flops Harry onto the bed.

And that’s all he’s going to do.

That’s what he’s told himself. That’s all he’s going to do.

…

Except that Harry isn’t even fully on the bed, his legs hanging over the end, the pillow far from close to his head.

And so he shifts him upward, maneuvering the boy with endless limbs until he’s situated comfortably. Unthinkingly, Louis undoes his bow tie and the first couple buttons on his crisp shirt, opting out of stripping him of his jacket since he can’t even imagine how he would accomplish such activity without waking Harry up fully. He unlaces his shoes and slides them off, fetches a wet cloth and dabs away a mysterious stickiness that coats his neck and hands (Louis doesn’t want to know) and brushes a cool hand over his sweaty forehead and damp locks.

And now he’s going to leave.

Because he’s officially taken care of Harry and basically bathed him and done all that he should considering he owes him nothing and Harry has as much respect for him as he does a snow crab.

Actually, Harry respects snow crabs more. He’s said so.

Louis rolls his eyes at the thought as he sits beside Harry, holding the wet cloth in his hands as he stares at his sleeping form. It’s such a contrast from the usual.

Once again Louis is reminded of earlier in the day, Harry’s face and posture as he wept and poured whatever feeling he possessed into the piano; that same sense of realness is there now, and as Louis watches him, unable to look away and unable to identify the clawing in his stomach, he finds himself placing a hand over Harry’s own.

He wants to take it back instantly. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, staring at this tornado of a boy with deep shadows and dark curls and holds his fucking hand like a child, unable to pry himself away no matter how much his bed is calling him.

Eventually he succumbs to his exhaustion though, sliding his hand away and taking a final look at Harry. He doesn’t know when the next time will be that he sees him in such honest surrender, such open vulnerability, and it makes him both sad and relieved.

So with one last parting look in Harry’s direction, Louis shuts the door, gripping the damp cloth in his hand tightly as he tears himself away and trudges back to his flat, each step bearing a new weight.

And Louis does not want tomorrow to come.

Because he does not like the direction that this situation is headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am becoming increasingly concerned over the length of this fic. My greatest fear is that it will be 100 chapters or something. I mean, I need to handle this situation before it becomes Medusa. :S
> 
> Aaaanywho, thank you all for reading, you're gorgeous, you're sweet, I love your words. <3 
> 
> Also, I've begun tagging pictures that fit in my mental lines of this story. If you want to see these pups how I envision them in this world, it's all in my "This is inspiring me" tag on tumblrrrr. (mizzwilde.tumblr/tagged/this-is-inspiring-me)


	12. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis returns from putting Harry Styles to be, and tries to recover his mind. And fails.

The minute that Louis enters his flat, he makes a beeline straight for Niall’s bedroom, his mind still buzzing with “WHAT THE FUCK” and a fire under his skin in all the places it met with Harry’s in his drunken haze.

Because no fucking way can he just flop into bed right now and fall asleep. No, he absolutely cannot do that because his head may explode any minute and his heart is doing weird things and his blood pressure is probably through the roof; death is almost certainly eminent.

And, oh yeah, he’s also pissed at the little Irish fuck because where the hell did he get to tonight? And why the fuck did he abandon Louis, leaving him to support a barely-there Harry Styles? And put him to bed? And thus force him to hold his fucking hand like a small child?

It’s all Niall’s fault.

Fury anew, he bursts through the closed door and immediately sees the sleeping frame of the boy swirled amongst blankets, head cushioned deeply amongst pillows, mouth hanging open comically. He’s still dressed, shoes and all, the room distinctly reeks of marijuana and whiskey, and the remnants of a turkey sandwich sit on his nightstand, half-eaten and drunkenly abandoned.

But Louis is relieved for two reasons:

1\. Niall _is_ officially home and not still off gallivanting.

2\. Niall’s alone and thus can focus his full attention on Louis who is feeling vulnerable and needy. (He was also sort of terrified of interrupting something that would most likely have scarred him for life.)

“Nialler, Niall, Ireland,” Louis calls as he climbs atop the enormous bed (and damn, don’t those sheets feel soft) and begins shaking the boy awake. “Hey, I need to talk. I need to ask you things. Ireland! Comfort me!” He pats his cheeks between his hands like he’s banging a drum, impatience winning out over gentleness.

And Niall, slowly and confusedly with a brow that is more furrowed than Louis has ever seen it, begins to blearily open his eyes. They cut through the darkness in their crystal luster, seeking Louis’ own, and the animosity that pours from them is actually quite startling.

But Louis plows on anyway.

“Oh, excellent! You’re awake. Now, I need to ask you—“

“Fuck. Off.”

Louis blinks. Wait, what?

“Fuck. _Off,_ ” Niall repeats, and his voice is burdened with sleep, his eyes deep set with bags and crust, and maybe there’s a raging hangover in the process, or maybe Niall just really hates being woken up (he does loves his sleep, after all…) but either way, Louis is almost, sort of, maybe terrified.

He eases off of him just a bit, staring down into the cutthroat eyes apprehensively as he brings his hands to his sides and far away from the piranha beneath him.

“Niall…?” he questions carefully.

Niall’s glare increases. “Louis, if you don’t fucking get the fuck off of me, I swear I will fucking rip your fucking head the fuck off.”

Louis gapes, appalled. “ _Rip_ my—“

“I will rip your cunt wanking head off with my bare fucking hands and I will feed it to your goddamn mother,” Niall confirms, and even in his exhaustion, his limbs begin to stir.

And while Louis is [almost] sure that Niall wouldn’t actually slaughter him…

“Right then. I’ll see you when you wake. Goodnight, love, sweet dreams!” he sing-songs, hopping off of him in one deft movement and practically sprinting out of the room without a backward glance.

Well, then. Shit.

At least Louis’ learned a new thing about Niall: never disturb his slumber, or else suffer the penalty of death.

So it wasn’t a totally wasted effort then, Louis thinks as he begins to make himself some tea, and prepares for a sleepless night of self-doubt and over-analyzing, staying far away from Niall.

**

The sun has fully risen, four kettles of tea have been ingested, and there is a shamefully embarrassing stack of crumpled notebook pages (filled with silly things like “but why would he cry????” “I hate H.S.” “ ~~Harry Styles~~ ” and even a very unattractive doodle of a smashed piano) surrounding Louis as he stares at the currently untouched page before him entitled, ‘What tha fuck is wrong with Harry Stylezzz?’ complete with a scribble of a wilting flower and a storm cloud.

Maybe he’s had too much caffeine and maybe he needs sleep.

Maybe.

He’s already attempted a Venn diagram of Harry’s moods (unsuccessfully) and crafted an outline of how to avoid him in the future and why (also unsuccessfully).

So it’s really quite the blessing when Niall’s door finally creaks open, revealing his yawning face and shirtless torso complete with lovebites.

Louis glares. “The beast awakens,” he says dryly, already crumpling up his newest attempt at diligent Harry Styles note-taking. He watches as Niall blinks his eyes in the sunlight, looking around the flat in near delirium, hair sticking up at all angles and sleep creases in his cheeks. “Somebody had some company last night,” he comments further, pointedly staring at a particularly vicious bruise near his right nipple.

“Hm?” Niall asks offhandedly, scratching his bum and heading straight for the fridge.

“Your lovebites.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Niall yawns, grinning. “Yeah, it was a good time. She was nice.”

 _She was nice_. Wow.

Louis’ glare intensifies as he watches the boy rifle through the fruit drawer, before emerging with two apples and a bag of grapes.

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” he prompts as Niall plucks three croissants from a bag near the fridge.

“For what?” he asks, completely oblivious. He rips a croissant open with his teeth and hums his appreciation as he chews while shoving his fist into the grapes without ceremony. You’d think he hadn’t eaten for days.

It’s attractive.

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe for threatening to cause me bodily harm this morning when I was just looking for a cuddle?!” Louis bellows, shooting metaphorical daggers across the room and refusing to be tamed.

Niall looks to him, brows furrowed, as he chomps from the kitchen. “This morning? What?”

“Yes, this morning. You threatened to rip my limbs apart like bloody Chewbacca! Don’t play coy, I see you, Niall Horan, and I see the evil that lurks beneath. And it is an _ugly_ shade on you, I must say,” Louis huffs, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair with a flounce.

“Ohhhhh, I think I do remember that. Vaguely.” Niall strides over and settles down across from Louis without remorse, bag of grapes extended. “Want some?”

But Louis only stares in response.

“That’s all you have to say?”

He shrugs. “Oops?” he offers.

“Oops??!”

“I was sleeping. What can I say?”

“You could say sorry.”

“Sorry. So what were you really waking me up for anyway? You said something about needing to talk.”

And maybe that was the most insincere apology in the world, but dammit, because Niall’s just asked the question that Louis needs to answer.

“Ah. Well.” Louis clears his throat, gathering the scattered balls of paper before Niall’s curiosity wins out and he smooths out a page of humiliation and shame, deciphering Louis’ madman scrawl and speculations over the man he hates more than anything. “I was just needing to ask some questions about Harry. Tell me more about him. Anything and everything you’ve got.” Arms filled, Louis dumps the paper balls into the bin, appearing nonchalant and keeping one eye on Niall.

“I’ve already told you everything I know. Why?”

“Because I want to know why he’s so evil. Tell me anything—about his family, his life…just anything.” Louis sits back down and stares across at Niall expectantly, hands folded, refusing to acknowledge any stirrings that feel suspiciously like concern for the boy in question.

Niall chews his grapes. “I literally told you everything. Dad’s Des, he’s a fuckin legend—he’s just been inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, you know?”

“Of course he was,” Louis mumbles.

“Erm. He’s still mental. He’s—“

“Is he at home?” Louis interrupts, eyes serious.

“Huh?”

“Is he at home? Does he live with Harry? Or is he in hospital…?”

“I dunno, I can’t keep track. Probably at home? Why does it matter?” Niall asks, refastening his Rolex and glancing up at Louis.

“It doesn’t, I guess. He’s just…” Louis sighs, sinking his tired head into his hands. He really needs some sleep. “Forget it. I’m too tired for this. Wake me in an hour.”

“What’s in an hour?”

“I want to go to Zayn’s.”

And no, this has nothing to do with wanting to see Harry. Because he doesn’t, really.

But even if he did want to, it would only be to confirm that _nothing_ has changed between them after last night’s random act of kindness. That’s all. Just so they’re on the same page. He just wants to confirm that.

“All right. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in an hour,” Niall smiles, ruffling Louis’ hair before walking away.

“DO NOT TOUCH THE PIANO,” Louis warns, and Niall stops mid-step.

“I’ll play you to sleep?” he offers, an eyebrow raised.

Louis ponders, slowly trudging to his room. “Lullabies?”

“I can do lullabies.”

“With filthy lyrics?”

“I can do that as well.”

“All right, then. But play softly,” Louis warns, and slides into his room just as Niall takes a seat at the grand piece of shit, fingers lowering onto the waiting keys as he serenades Louis to sleep with “Lick My Love Pump.”

**

Louis still isn’t thinking about Harry.

Him and Niall are on their way to Zayn’s (and Niall took his fucking segway so Louis feels short, slow, and irate beside him) and he is absolutely not terrified to see Harry. He’s not. In no way is he scared to meet those eyes.

But… At the same time…

What if he remembers? What if he was more conscious than Louis realized and he remembers Louis taking care of him, wiping his forehead, or, worst of all, holding his hand? The thought alone makes Louis’ stomach drop and there are spikes of anxiety shooting from his fingertips to his brain. Nerves. All Louis can feel is nerves.

And then Niall suddenly curses. “Fuck. How am I going to take the segway up the stairs?”

Louis looks over, realizing they’ve reached the tower to Zayn’s rooms, and then looks to Niall who is caught between frustration and realization.

“Carry it?”

He sighs. “Nah. I think I’ll actually just go back and smoke. I’ve got a headache anyway.”

Louis snaps his gaze to him. “You’re going to make me go alone?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Because Harry. Because he can’t enter that room with Harry staring at him and not have nice, calming, distracting Niall to diffuse the tension and stick by his side. That’s fucking why.

“No reason,” Louis says breezily. “But I really think it’s rude to choose spending the day with a plant over me.”

Niall laughs, shaking his head as he adjusts his over-sized jumper and kicks his pristine white Nike’s on the ground, sliding his phone out of his back pocket.

“Fine, fine, Drama. I’ll just have Rory take it, then.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I hope you pay that poor man well.”

“Of course! He’s me best mate!”

And so Niall calls Rory while Louis begins to ascend the stairs, nerves nearly buckling his knees, each step resonating a sound ‘Harry’ inside of his head.

It will be okay. He probably won’t even remember. It will be okay and they won’t even discuss it and it will be okay.

It will be okay.

“All right,” Niall calls, bounding up the stairs to catch up with Louis. “Rory’s on his way.”

Louis nods as they reach the top, and as they come face to face with the heavy wooden door, his nerves pick up to full speed.

“I don’t feel good. Maybe we should just go back,” he says, turning to face Niall who raises his eyebrows.

“Well, too late now.” And he opens the door without another moment’s hesitation. “Heeeeyyyy!” he greets in his most jovial tone, and Louis swallows as he prepares himself mentally (impossible) and follows him inside.

There’s Zayn, wearing black jersey shorts and an enormous paint-splattered black t-shirt, paintbrush in hand as he stands in front of a large canvas near the row of windows in the back.

And there’s Liam, dressed to the nines in a cream waistcoat and trousers, white button-up shirt starched and ironed and glowing in the afternoon sun as he sits at the long table and puffs on a cigar, mindlessly flitting through a large, dusty book.

And there’s no Harry.

So Louis breathes again.

“Louis!” Liam immediately grins, standing up and stubbing out his cigar. “Niall!”

“Lads,” Louis greets, smile wider than he realizes, possessing all the relief and unwinding tension of suffering from a very close call. And, no, he’s not disappointed that Harry isn’t there because all he feels is relief. Relief.

Zayn sends a nod their way before he continues painting large strokes on the canvas before him.

“How are you boys today? Up for a smoke?” Niall asks, and is already getting out his little baggy and the accompanied paraphernalia which Louis had no idea he’d even brought.

“Really, Niall?” Louis judges, eying the boy’s focused movements. “We’ve not even been here for a full minute.”

But Niall merely shrugs. “No time like the present!”

“Oh, lovely!” Liam smiles, clapping his hands.

After Niall makes speedy work of what he does best, he inhales from the little glass bowl with a large grin, resembling a chipmunk, before handing it off to Liam and hopping towards the piano.

“Here, I’ll play you a very special song,” he coughs through an avalanche of smoke, and settles himself down, golden hair mingling with smoke and sunlight.

“Play something chipper, will you?” Louis calls as Liam passes him the bowl with a large smile.

“Yes, something chipper!” Liam agrees, cloudy wisps sneaking out of his lips.

Louis then brings his own mouth to the glass, flicking the lighter into life as he takes repeated hits, rationalizing that he deserves to get as high as he wants in celebration of the fact that Harry is not, in fact, here, and thus can relax.

Because, yup, Harry’s not here!

And he’s definitely not going to talk about him.

“So where’s Harry?” he finds himself asking as his head dizzies with weed. Oops.

“He’s missing,” Liam says nonchalantly, sipping tea.

Louis blinks, Niall’s piano playing thickening his skull in his haze.

“Wait, what? Missing?”

“Mmhm.”

“What do you mean ‘missing?’ Like, he’s gone out or…?”

“No, he’s run off somewhere. He does this all the time, though.”

“Run off?”

“Yeah. You know. He’s usually only gone for a couple of days.”

Louis’ jaw quite literally drops. “Days?? I thought you meant for, like, an hour!”

“It’s fine. He’ll turn up,” Zayn says dismissively, squinting his eyes as he dabs white paint onto the corner of the canvas.

What the actual fuck?

“And if he doesn’t?” Louis inquires, shrill, and even Niall looks up from the piano at this point.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, not breaking his stride, eyebrows just knitting together above his glossy reddened eyes.

“Nothing,” Louis mumbles, flushing slightly. And Louis never flushes. “I just—“

“You’re worried about him, are you?” Zayn asks, and he straightens as he stares at Louis with the barest hint of a smile.

“I’ve no reason to worry nor care about his well being, Zayn. I just find it odd that you don’t. Aren’t you supposed to be his best mates? Can’t you at least try to call him?”

Liam merely shrugs. “He turns off his phone. That is, if he brings it at all.”

Oh wow.

Louis just stares.

“He’s done this as long as I’ve known him,” Liam continues. “He’ll be fine, Lou.” He ends the sentence with a polite smile, and gets up from his chair before striding over to Louis and taking the seat beside him. With polished teeth he tilts his head as he admires him, sliding his hands around his arm. “Now. What should we do today?”

And Louis is sufficiently uncomfortable enough by the topic at hand that he allows the blatant subject change, and lays his prickling curiosity, and maybe concern, to rest.

“I should study,” he mumbles, and the sound of several piano keys being smashed suddenly mars the peace of the room.

Three heads turn to Niall who now has his head in his hands in what is quite possibly the most dramatic pose on earth.

“Tell me we are not going to do homework today,” he warns gruffly, palms pressed into his eyes.

Liam turns to Louis for an answer.

“Niall, you lazy sod, I swear to god I’ll—“ Louis begins with a biting glare, before he’s almost immediately cut off by Zayn saying:

“Louis. Come here a moment, will you?”

Louis blinks, mouth still posed open in preparation to hurl further insult and warning to Niall, before turning to face Zayn who is now standing in front of the canvas, arms folded in contemplation with his hip jutting to the side as he surveys his work. His eyes flick to Louis momentarily.

Louis nods and complies, throwing one last glare in Niall’s direction, who is now playing piano again, his soft pink cheeks seemingly suppressing a smile.

“I want your opinion," Zayn mutters silkily.

Curiously, Louis joins him at his side where he wraps a close arm around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him tighter to his side as he stares intently at the painting before them, smelling of cigarette smoke, aftershave, and acrylics.

“Tell me what you think.”

Louis stares at the work before him.

Zayn’s painting? It’s gorgeous. That’s the best word for it.

Large thick crimson, blood orange, and burnt yellow flames lick at a smooth night sky, engulfing soft bending willows that cluster the frame in chunky brushstrokes. Streams of fire twist amongst the congealed bark and the brilliant green leaves, half-shaded in shadowy night tones, of branches that grasp at tiny, twinkling stars flicked onto the canvas. Amongst the fiery willows sits a twisted thorn bed, their glimmering stems painted in thick ebonies, spikes illuminated in grays and dark greens.

The swoops of the thorn branches are deep and dark, curling around each other like hair.

Like deep, chocolate mousse, curly hair.

And the green of the leaves reflects the simultaneous depth and one-dimension of a certain pair of green eyes…

And fuck. What is wrong with him? It’s a fucking painting, nothing more.

“It’s incredible, Zayn,” Louis utters, deeply impressed.

“It’s inspired by you,” he half-smiles, hand squeezing his shoulder.

Louis looks to Zayn, then back at the painting. “Me? Zayn, this is, quite literally, a pit of fire. That’s engulfing the world. What are you trying to say?”

Zayn smiles wider at that, studying Louis’ face with something akin to smug satisfaction, before returning his gaze back to his creation.

“You’ve got that fiery spirit,” is all he says.

And fuck.

So it’s a painting about himself but it reminds him of Harry.

So there’s that.

Harry.

Harry who is missing. Who is missing while his friends don’t seem to mind one bit. Harry.

Harry whose curls are like those thick, treacherous thorns that cut you upon impact. Whose eyes are like those shadowy green leaves that reach to strangle the stars.

Harry.

“So you really don’t know where he is?” Louis finds himself asking suddenly, breaking the calm silence of the room. Louis never says his name, but Zayn, apparently, doesn't need to hear it. He just knows. 

He looks to Louis, smile barely visible, and shrugs. “He’s smarter than you give him credit for.”

“No, he’s not,” Louis grumbles.

“Why do you keep asking?” Liam inquires then suddenly, apparently listening from across the room. His eyes hold no accusation, just curiosity.

Louis shifts, averting his gaze. He is entirely uncomfortable. “Just cuz…you’d think you lot would be worried, is all.”

“Trust me, if we spent our time worrying about Harold, we’d never make it out the day alive,” Zayn chuckles lightly, and releases Louis from his grip. “I’m going to submit this for a charity my father’s hosting,” he immediately segues as he picks up a cloth and wipes his hands with it. The paints begin to slide off his caramely skin, blending together on the dull fabric.

“You’re getting rid of it?” Louis asks, surprised.

Zayn nods. “It’s why I made it.”

“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” Liam coos, walking over to Zayn and wrapping arms around his waist. “You’re so talented, love,” he simpers into Zayn’s neck, eyes closed and blissful as he grasps Zayn like a life raft.

Zayn beams and kisses the palm of his hand.

Louis and Niall, who has just risen from the piano with an enormous yawn, both roll their eyes.

“Sweet Jesus,” Niall says with a shake of his head, sliding his manicured hands into his pockets as he turns to walk around the room, far away from the spectacle.

“They’re sickening, aren’t they, Ireland?” Louis asks, arms crossed as he stares in open disgust.

“I’m so glad we’re not fucking.”

Louis scoffs. “Oh, please. You wish you had this.” And he pops his hip and sends the boy a wink.

Niall cackles.

“All right then, lads,” Liam suddenly says, disengaging himself from his cuddle session. “Lunch, yeah?”

“And then the library?” Niall asks with dread.

“And then the library,” Liam confirms, and maybe Louis groans, too.

“You need to study for your class,” Zayn reminds him, but Louis flicks his hand in dismissal.

“I’ve already come to terms with my shortcomings, Zayn dearest. I’ll never pass.”

“But you have to pass!” Liam says, eyes wide.

“If this is the agenda for the day, then I’m out,” Niall then interrupts with barely withheld disgust, backing towards the door.

“You’ve got homework as well, you child. Stop acting like the queen of the day,” Louis scolds, glaring.

“I don’t do homework. That’s what assistants are for.”

“What?? You have RORY do your homework?” Louis asks in disbelief, before the light bulb suddenly clicks and his wheels begin slowly turning. He narrows his eyes in suspicious inquiry. “I don’t suppose he’d do mine?” he asks in a low tone out the side of his mouth, eyebrow raised.

“Of course he would!” Niall says delightedly, hopping  immediately up out of the throne he’d just sat in. All of Zayn’s chairs look like thrones. It’s sort of impeccable, Louis thinks.

Liam smiles widely at this, turning expectantly to Louis with eyes that clearly ask, ‘Well, then?’

“In that case—“ Louis starts, but is promptly cut off by Zayn who is now brushing a smear of black paint off of his cheek with the back of his dirty, paintbrush-holding hand.

“Louis does his own homework, don’t you, Louis?” Zayn smiles, and there’s just a hint of encouraging pride beneath the surface of his calm features and steady eyes.

“Erm.”

“He’s smart, our Louis,” Zayn finishes, and with a respectful nod in Louis’ direction, he returns his attention back to wiping his hands clean.

Louis sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, what he said.” And his tone is unconvincing but at least he’s forced the words out.

Niall deflates. “Fuckin’ great. Stuck at the wanking library all day.”

“It could be fun,” Liam suggests, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Not if he ends up failing and it all goes to waste,” Niall grumbles, pouting.

“Niall!” Liam scolds, and Zayn laughs.

“I’m not going to fail,” Louis says hotly. “I’ll figure something out. But for now, let’s focus on Zayn putting on something proper so we can EAT.”

“I’m so fucking starving,” Niall adds as he pokes at an unidentifiable sculpture that resembles melted chocolate.

Zayn nods, eyes on Louis. “I’ll be right out. Liam?”

And with one last look at Louis—which holds far too much unexplained secrecy and mischief for Louis’ liking—Zayn exits into his rooms, Liam close behind.

As Louis watches them part, Niall sighs. “Today’s shite. I should’ve stayed home and smoked.”

“You’re absolutely not leaving me. You’ve already ditched me once in the past twenty-four hours.”

“But you like them! You don’t need me here.”

“I like you, too. So stay, and stop acting like a peasant.”

Niall’s smile slowly creeps onto his face. “You like me?”

Louis shifts, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll never be able to prove I said that. Now hush and discuss lunch options with me.”

And just like that, Louis forgets about Harry Styles and all the worries in his world, and instead focuses on Niall’s lilting commentary on food and the way his pearly teeth glint under mood lighting. And Louis thinks that, maybe, disengaging himself from Harry Styles’ existence won’t be so hard after all.

**

The rest of the weekend and the next couple of days pass as they always do in Louis Version 2.0’s life.

The boys stroll around and bicker throughout the day, sampling the best of everything and flouting hedonism in every possible manner. It’s lovely, really.

On Sunday they attend some posh dinner party, hosted by a man with too many teeth and greased hair, filled with faces Louis can’t even pretend to place. And he feels out of his element, but he laughs with Niall who chats up every living, breathing thing there, gets the gossip on everyone from a slyly whispering Liam at his side, and exchanges mischievous glances with Zayn who watches in great amusement as Louis slips cubes of cheeses into various guests’ unsuspecting drinks when their eyes are averted elsewhere.

On Monday night, after three studious hours in the library (in which Niall spends his time texting and blaring Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorns” at full volume on his over-sized headphones, much to the distraction of every soul on the planet) Liam proposes that they treat themselves to a quiet party at Edward’s summer home. It turns out to be a ridiculous affair though, with strippers and ice cream trucks and fancy dress, and Louis mostly remembers laughing a lot while consuming copious amounts of “Pink Juice” which tastes like candy and stings like battery acid, and firmly ignores every other person’s inquiry of “Where’s Harold at, then?” because who is Harry Styles? Louis doesn’t remember because he’s not been thinking about him and he’s not concerned for him and he’s not acknowledging the fact that school’s started for the week and Harry is still MIA, missing his courses and all.

Nope, he ignores everything, and so Louis bounces around with Liam and gets tackled by Niall until they’re falling into a group of girls dressed as slutty rabbits, and Zayn pulls them up one by one, passing them cigarettes and wine glasses as he smooths his jacket.

And then they leave early, donning every prop they could get their hands on, and stroll the abandoned streets in the night with bottles of wine. Niall's wrapped in a velvet cape and insists on being referred to as ‘Draco Malfoy'--though he repeatedly forgets as much, oblivious when the boys keep calling him to get his attentions: “Draco!” Nothing. “DRACO.” Nothing. “NIALL!” “Huh?”. Zayn is wearing a king’s crown (at Louis’s insistence), gold and encrusted with jewels while Liam wears a black, glittery mask that keeps falling off his giggling face. And then there's Louis, bedecked in a large curly afro complete with a comb, a staff, and a Jedi robe.

Too many photos are taken, too much wine is guzzled, and it’s all very ridiculous but Louis can’t seem to care as he strides under the murky night sky, laughing. Not when he needs distractions such as these, and not when he sings “Phantom of the Opera” at the top of his lungs while he swings from lampposts, mussing the words because he has no fucking clue what they actually are. The night, overall, is a success.

And then Tuesday comes around.

And it’s a quiet day.

Louis attends his courses, ears picking up on the random bits of gossip he hears, especially every time Harry’s name is mentioned, in some slight and distant hope to obtain any form of information as to his whereabouts, since Zayn and Liam only repeat the mantra of: “He’ll be fine, he always comes back.”

At one point, a group of beautiful girls in McQueen scarves gab animatedly about their previous nights’ exploits with Harry (which is utter bullshit, since Louis has, possibly, meandered around Harry’s rooms and has never once seen the light on, the curtains remaining untouched and the shadows within settled and unchanging) and Louis resists the urge to shove their purses over their heads. Because, really.

But other than that, it’s a fairly peaceful day, enough to even sate Louis’ frustration at once again near-failing his assignment for that bloody course that he hates so fucking much.

So, when Louis comes home from lecture and opens the door to Niall atop a full set of fucking drums in the middle of their living room, he is rather taken aback.

“What the living fuck is happening?” he deadpans before he even shuts the door, standing in horror and taking in the display, Niall’s hand poised just above a cymbal, ready to crash down.

And “CCCCHHHHHH!” there it goes, the metal clanging and reverberating within their not-soundproof flat, and Louis drops his bag to stuff his hands over his hears.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!” he shouts, but Niall only grins before stilling the cymbal between his thumb and forefinger.

“I got a drumset,” he says proudly by way of explanation, sat back on his stool like a little boy on his first day of school, grin wide and a little smug. His pristine tracksuit puts Louis’ own t-shirt and jeans to shame oddly enough, and his impeccable cologne (which Louis frequently steals even though Niall gives him bottles constantly) fills the room.

“I see that. And no, you’re not keeping it,” is all Louis says as he shuts the door, kicking off his shoes.

“I have to, ya' see. Me dad wants me to play back-up drums on Des Styles’ new track.”

Which makes Louis freeze.

“Des Styles? He’s got a new track, then? He’s doing all right?”

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, father called this morning. Des is doing another collaboration with Nick Grimshaw, and he’s so goddamn excited cuz they asked him to produce it. Last time they did a track, Des insisted he was going to do the producing himself. Father was fuckin’ furious.”

Louis nods slowly. “Who’s Nick Grimshaw?”

“That bloke who sings for that one band—what is it? Electrolytes?”

“Electra,” Louis corrects, and he’s almost impressed. “I actually quite like a few of their songs.” Their energetic, fancy grooves often fill the darkness of the seedy clubs Louis loves to attend, and he finds they go excellently with cosmopolitans.

“Yeah, that’s it. He’s camp as hell and he’s an even better time. You’d like him.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Nice. So Des is doing well, then?” And Louis can’t explain why he needs to know so much about Des Styles and how he relates to Harry lately, but he needs to ask. So he grabs himself a bottle of water and clomps onto one of the velvet armchairs near Niall who is now twirling his drumsticks in his hands.

“Erm…” Niall begins, and ceases his twirling, instead focusing on a chip that’s developed on the tip of one. “I don’t think so. I guess he’s trashed the studio twice already.”

Louis almost spits out his water. “Sorry? He trashed the fucking studio?? Did he get arrested?”

“Nah. Friends in high places and all that.” Niall sets down the drumsticks, turning to Louis, face even, cheeks rosy. “He’s had to have security called a couple times though. He’s pretty violent.”

“Oh.” Louis swallows, feeling a bit sick.

“Brilliant, though. Dad says his new track’s sick. But… Well. I guess he’s relapsed again, so.” Niall shrugs, then gets up and marches to their makeshift bar on the other side of the room, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

“Is it, like, alcohol or…like, heroin or something?”

“Eh, if the rumors are true, then both I guess? I dunno, I know he had a problem with coke. And I’ve seen him smoke crack myself, so…” Niall clears his throat, downing the dregs of his whiskey. “It’s a bit fucked, to be honest.”

“Is he dangerous?” Louis asks, watching Niall closely.

“I dunno. I guess maybe?”

“Then why the fuck is he allowed to live with Harry?” Louis immediately clips, standing up and feeling his veins fill with indignation. Because, yeah, Louis would probably turn into a raging piece of shit as well if he had to live with the likes of Des Styles, legendary status be damned.

“Look, Louis, I don’t know,” Niall sighs. “All I know is that I get to do the drums for his track, and if Nick Grimshaw chose to work with him, then he can’t be all that fucked, right?”

No. No, that doesn’t make sense at all.

But Louis really doesn’t feel like arguing and his head is on the verge of swimming, so he just shrugs and sits back down.

“I miss when I had no friends and was destined to die alone,” he mumbles.

Niall chuckles. “You’re so dramatic.”

Louis shoots him a glare.

“Well, I’ve got to go the studio now,” Niall says, hopping over the couch and heading towards his room. “Gotta work with father on some stuff. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Ooh, look at you. Mr. Fancy Producer in the making,” Louis teases.

Niall winks as he emerges from his room wearing a snapback and a large jumper, gray sweatpants poking out from beneath. “What can I say? I’m well bred!” he mocks, and hops over to Louis so he can wrestle him into a headlock.

“My hair!” Louis squawks as he shoves him away, but Niall merely laughs before bounding to the door.

“I’ll see you later. Stay out of trouble. Text if you need anything, or text Rory.”

“Will do, Ireland. Bang those drums for me.”

And then the door closes.

Really, Louis should work on his homework, especially for that damn course that will probably fail him and all his hard work for this term.

But then again, it’s a lovely night, and Louis could stand for some good fresh, evening air, and so without another thought he grabs his iPod and slides out the door, needing to calm his grating mind.

**

The walk was wonderful. The sun was fading, the chatter in the streets was muted, and the lights began to flick on and twinkle all around him. Pubs, shops, and the walls of the school were all painted in evening blues, and the smell of summer was still just barely lingering amidst cool breezes.

And Louis was finally, finally feeling better, his head clearing of anxiety and over-thinking, and was just on his way back when the ludicrous thought that he should take the long way home occurred to him. And though he knew exactly what he was doing, he didn’t allow himself to over think it.

But now, here he is.

Standing in the gardens, looking above at the row of windows of Harry’s flat. And the lights are on. And once in awhile, he’ll see the top of a curly mass of hair walking slowly to and fro. Occasionally he’ll glance an arm or a hand or the tip of a jacket being taken off.

Harry’s home.

Harry’s home and now Louis has to ignore the surging panic, curiosity, maybe-excitement, and a slew of other emotions that have engulfed him out of seemingly nowhere. Because Louis almost staggers from the emotions that are taking over his body, and he doesn’t even fucking know why. Because he hates Harry, he’s pretty sure he really does, but he can’t seem to look away as he stands amongst chrysanthemums and daisies on a cobblestone path, the tragic musk of roses settled in the air, staring up at dimly lit windows, searching for a boy who barely exists.

And he stands there until the lights flick off and the movement is no more, the moon soaking the world in calm shadow, before he can finally drag himself away.

And now all he can think about is tomorrow.

And Harry Styles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess what? I officially found Louis' song: It's "11th Dimension" by Julian Casablancas. That's his theme song for this piece. And I found Niall's too! It's "This Boy" by Franz Ferdinand. (I don't know about you, but I love assigning songs to characters, because you can really get a vibe going for them, ya feel?) 
> 
> Also. I WISH I knew how to put pictures here because I found the PERFECT Harry gif for this story. It's so perfect!! It's under my "This is inspiring me" tag on tumblr (mizzwilde.tumblr.com/tagged/this-is-inspiring-me) and it might be a ways back now, but he's got a bowtie and he's scowling and he's pretty and...yeah. I just got really excited by the fact. 
> 
> Anyho, thank you for reading, gorgeous darlings. <3


	13. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis needs help. A lot of help.

Wednesday begins as a mess.

It’s already rubbish because Louis is utterly exhausted since he had gone to bed too late once again. He’d grilled Niall as soon as he’d returned, casually demanding if Des was at the studio—he wasn’t—and gathering whatever other information he could on the situation—which was nothing—then proceeded to smoke too much, watch too much tellie with blank eyes as his mind wandered and heart beat angrily, and stuffed whatever food Niall had piled around them into his mouth.

All the while resolutely not thinking about a certain light in a certain window as a certain shadow flickered on the walls.

Thus today, through the exhaustion that mercilessly pulls on his eyelids and sinks his limbs to the floor, he has found himself late for every single course of the day.  And not once has he retained an ounce of information throughout said courses, pen always uncapped but never connecting with the blank notebook page before him, because his minds keeps flicking to either one of two places:

1\. His bed with its plush sheets and lonely pillows.

And

2\. That certain window.

And it’s a big fucking mess.

Which only worsens when he runs into Cindy, the only person in his “The Study of Prose in Victorian Era Playwrights” course that doesn’t make him want to pour sulfuric acid into the sprinklers and set the world on fire, as he’s heading to that very course.

“Louis,” she greets with a smile, bedecked in what appears to be Hogwarts robes. Or some shit.

Louis tries not to judge her choice in attire (he likes Harry Potter, so who is he to judge?) but instincts take the wheel and he finds himself sliding disapproving eyes over her ensemble.

“Cindy,” he nods happily, but his eyes are still caught on her sleeves which are as large as church bells.

Luckily she doesn’t notice, instead grinning and asking a curious, “Where’s your gown?” while tilting her head in confusion.

Which now confuses Louis. Gown?

“What on earth are you referencing?” he asks with amusement, shouldering his bag as he walks into step beside her.

“Your academic dress. We’ve an exam today and you know the rules—have to wear your robes proper if you’re taking exams, else you’ll be asked to leave. Remember?”

And Louis shits his pants.

Because, no, he did not know they had an exam today, let alone that they had to wear rubbish bags to do so. Well, he did have a _faint_ recollection of such regulations, but actually putting these things into practice is another world entirely.

Without explanation or reason, Louis takes off in full sprint, in the opposite direction, throwing back a frantic “Sorry!” as he flies through the stone corridors, leaving a very perplexed Cindy in his wake.

And so Louis arrives to his first exam—in the _one_ course that is threatening to sink him to the bottom of the academic ocean—late, academic regalia haphazardly adorned (Niall attempted to help him assemble in the mad rush, but he was in the process of eating pizza, his hands flecked in sauce and reeking of beer, so Louis spent more time shushing him away than anything) with the fear of death rattling his ribcage.

He proceeds to take the exam, attempting to answer as intelligently as his bewildered brain permits, before finishing with pained hesitance and leaving the building with a very real sense of failure.

And so it’s decided that Wednesday is utter shit.

 _‘At Zayn’s. Come after class’_ his phone reads as he slides it out in misery.

Which is convenient, because he was just about to text his suffering to Niall anyway.

Brain addled with self-reprimands and bitter-tinged curses aimed towards society—because why do they need exams, anyway?—Louis marches in the direction of Zayn’s rooms, robes removed and bundled up in his arms, eyes staring unseeingly at the ground, and mind very much removed from anything but his stupid fucking exam that he has almost certainly failed.

**

He arrives at Zayn’s rooms still in a daze, his mind detached and straining to remember the answer to question twenty-five (because he’s nearly positive he put A, but he might have put C, and was the answer D? Because he’s almost certain right now that it is indeed D), barely registering the slew of beautiful females and two males that file out of the large wooden door at the top of the stairs, smiling like peacocks and strutting like chickens as they clamber downward, firmly ignoring Louis as they flit through their iPhones.

Which should have tipped him off, really.

But unfortunately he’s currently still thinking about question twenty-five, and so when he pushes open the door and is greeted by Niall’s boisterous, “Louis, mate! How did the examination go?” and he answers with a bemoaned, sightless, “I failed it, you fucker,” the last thing he is expecting is a velvety quipped, “Well, that comes as no surprise,” that drips like molasses down the back of his spine.

Immediately his head snaps up and there he is.

Dressed in a solid ebony suit and bow tie, curls tossed and practically shimmering in afternoon light, lips obscenely pink (the fucker wears lippy, he has to), is Harry Styles, holding a champagne glass with his fucking pinky extended, smiling in a half-sneer that tugs at his dimple and leaves his eyes shadowy and desolate.

And fuck, this day just got worse, because there is he, right there, and Louis had totally forgotten that he’d returned. Had totally forgotten that he’d stood outside his window last night.

Oh god.

“Well, well. Shady’s back,” Louis mumbles, eyes stuck on Harry and feet stuck on the floor. His mouth is dry and his hands crawl into his pockets to hide and he flicks his hair nervously and just when the fuck did he become so awkward around Harry fucking Styles?

Oh yeah, maybe after he’d seen him crying in his room? Or maybe after he’d seen his body tugged in ten different directions by harpies? Or maybe when he held his hand as he slept peacefully. Or maybe not, who knows.

But Louis just stares now, frozen to the spot, attempting a glare but unsure of the outcome as he feels every pair of eyes on him in the room.

“I told you he would be,” Zayn smirks from his throne, lounging with a cigarette and Liam at his side, and immediately Harry and Louis’ eyes fly to him.

Louis is speechless. And on the verge of throwing a brick at Zayn’s head—because, thanks to Zayn, Harry now knows that Louis had inquired about his whereabouts. And the last thing he needs Harry to think is that he cares about him in any way at all, because that will probably only be used against him and to Harry’s own advantage.

Not that Louis cares.

But then he feels Harry’s eyes slide over to him and he refuses to react, refuses to look back, having absolutely no idea how to proceed with the situation, while still staring at Zayn with a fury that only the Hulk himself could match. Zayn merely smokes peacefully and traces the patterns of the tablecloth with his forefinger.

But, luckily, there’s always oblivious Niall and innocent Liam to the rescue.

“You failed your exam?” they utter simultaneously, Niall amused and Liam very nearly flabbergasted.

“Er, yeah,” Louis confirms as he gathers himself, clearing his throat as he turns his back to the scene, sliding his shoulder bag off and ignoring the burn of Harry’s gaze. “I didn’t even know we had one today. It was by luck that I’d managed to run into Cindy beforehand.”

“Cindy who?” Harry’s voice asks, and Louis still refuses to look back, instead busying himself with his belt which is suddenly conveniently too loose and needs to be readjusted. Now.  

“Jones,” he mutters, sliding the leather through the buckle tighter, fastening it on the next hole with fidgety fingers.

“I’ve had her,” Harry drawls pleasantly, and Louis can practically hear the delicate sip of his champagne between his smug lips.

“Fuck’s sake,” he breathes, rolling his eyes and feeling a surge of disgust. Because, really? Was that necessary information?

“You’ve had everybody,” Niall muses, before Harry smirks, and then Niall clomps over, throwing an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “So then, Tommo. What happened?”

“What do you mean ‘what happened?’ I fucking failed, didn’t I? Nothing else to say,” Louis finds himself snapping. And he feels bad, he does, but he can’t be bothered about it now because it’s a shit day and if Harry can be such a prat 24/7, surely he can have a slip-up once in a blue moon.

And Niall doesn’t seem to mind anyways, instead clapping a soothing hand on Louis’ back and shrugging his shoulders with an, “Ah, well. Better luck next time.”

“You’ve been having trouble in that class,” Zayn comments mildly, peering up at Louis who nods in response, eyes studying his hands as he tries not to glare or pout.

“You should get some help with it,” Liam suggests earnestly. “George is an excellent tutor. So is Edward. And that bloke who’s on the Student Union with us—Arthur—his grandfather used to teach the course.” He looks to Zayn who nods slowly, eyes trained on Louis.

“I’ve never needed a tutor,” Harry then comments uselessly, sliding his fingers through the bouquets of flowers on the table, eyes lost in the petals.

And everybody except Liam rolls their eyes, though Harry is oblivious to any of it.

“Hey. You’re good at Victorian literature,” Zayn points out suddenly with a growing smile, eyes calm.

Harry sighs, a half-hearted smile at play as he looks up and meets Zayn’s gaze. “Yes. I am,” he says simply, then returns his gaze to the roses.

“You should tutor Louis.”

And for a moment, the room is completely silent, all eyes sliding to Louis’ face. Which is now posed in absolute and total horror.

Harry’s own face immediately contorts to an affronted glare as his head snaps up once more. “No,” he counters immediately, gripping a hand over his stomach defensively as if burned, fingers digging into the rich fabric of his jacket.

“But you love the subject,” Zayn breathes through smoke. Liam’s eyes curiously turn to him, quietly calculating.

“Well, I have a say in this as well, and I also say no,” Louis adds, pouring himself a very generous glass of champagne and feeling his cheeks flush. Because what the fuck is wrong with Zayn? And when did it get so hot in here?

“Why not?” Liam asks, his naivete giving him the air of a small, golden retriever pup, staring betwixt the two boys with wide brown eyes that search for answers, before settling back on Zayn.

“I’d rather peel my own skin off,” Louis spits at the exact same time that Harry replies with a, “Some cannot be taught.”

Registering the other’s answer at the exact same time, they whir around to face each other, faces set in matching glares.

“I beg your pardon?” Harry demands, grip on his glass tightening.

“Say that again, Curly,” Louis dares, ignoring him, and setting down his own drink.

“Some cannot be taught,” Harry repeats, and it’s said with such childish spite that Louis is almost tempted to laugh, and Niall actually does.

“Well, that’s funny, that, because some cannot teach.”

Harry stares. “What are you trying to say?” he demands, voice deep and even, ruby lips slow to form each word.

Louis smiles angelically, batting his eyelashes with exaggerated innocence. “That you can’t teach.”

Harry looks as if he’s been slapped, actually recoiling from Louis as if he’s been beaten with a hotwire, and Louis feels the power of his position, regaining confidence as he fixes his steady stare downward to inspect his nails with faux-casualty, enjoying the control of the situation at hand.

Liam watches with wide, almost fearful eyes, and Zayn sips at burgundy wine, eyes nothing but amused and patient. And Niall scratches his stomach, stifling a yawn.

“You know, I’ve said so myself that there’s nothing a knob like you could teach me,” Louis lies. Because, no, he hasn’t exactly _said_ that, but he’s probably thought it. “I could learn more from a broomstick. At least it does actual work.”

And there it is—Harry’s eyes are engulfed with all the rage of a man who will absolutely find a broomstick of his own and beat Louis over the head with it. Until he’s dead.

“Broomsticks do not do actual work,” he mumbles, eyes ablaze. “They are _used_ for work—it’s other people who perform the duties. They’re just the tool.” Harry pauses, blinking a slow, angry blink, his glare deepening infinitesimally. “So there.”

Louis stares at him. “That’s what you got out of that? Really?”

Harry continues to glare.

So Louis smiles poisonously sugary and places a hand chock-full of attitude on his hip, tilting his head as he flouts, “Well, then I suppose we’re on the same page in thinking you can’t teach worth a shit!”

“OUR FIRST SESSION WILL BE TOMORROW,” Harry immediately clips in a rasping, angry thunder, and his chest puffs with the indignation that Louis is absolutely delighted to hear soaking his words. “You will be the best student in the fucking school by the time I’m done with you.” He pauses, scowling. “If that’s possible.”

“On your end or mine?” Louis counters, and Harry is actually baring his teeth at this point.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, lowly.

And Louis really, really wants to refuse the offer, throw it back in Harry’s face (along with his drink) but it’s tempting, and the quiet nagging in his stomach keeps him silent, only leaving him space to nod his assent.

“Tomorrow it is, then,” Louis agrees, and takes the hand Harry has extended, shaking it with forceful finality and squeezing with just enough force to infer who’s boss.

Which doesn’t work when Harry squeezes back, harder.

So then Louis squeezes harder, then Harry does, then Louis, and pretty soon their hands are twisting in the air, shaking and flushed as their faces contort in grimaces and growls, leaving the other three boys to stare at them, Niall mid-bite into a biscuit.

“Fuck’s sake,” he says with wide eyes. “Nice one, Malik. Really brilliant suggestion you had.”

And Liam doesn’t defend Zayn’s honor, instead sliding hesitant eyes to his smiling profile.

Without a word, Zayn merely continues to smile, as Harry and Louis continue to struggle before them like a pair of clumsy rams.

**

Louis is not in a state of terrified discomfort. Nope.

Just because it’s already Thursday and he’s due to arrive at Harry’s rooms in less than fifteen minutes for his first tutoring session, it does not mean that he’s in a state of terrified discomfort.

No sir-ee.

Nope.

(He’s also not in a state of unease because he woke up to seventeen missed calls from his mum and a text that merely said, ‘ _I love you boo bear. Call me please. I miss you. Call me love._ ’ No, he’s certainly not concerned for the well-being of his five sisters, since his mother seems to be going through one of her phases again. But he will have to call her later, after he’s returned from his tutoring session, and deal with the mess that he’s sure to find.)

“You better get going or you’ll be late,” Niall admonishes from the couch where he’s draped in blankets and shoving Jaffa cakes into his mouth. There's a nameless and borderline-terrifying cartoon on the TV.

“Yeah. Look for me if I don’t return? Tell my story?” Louis calls weakly, picking up his shoulder bag.

“Will do!” Niall calls, unfazed and mouth full. “Text me if you need anything. See ya, mate!”

And Louis closes the door behind him.

Fuck.

He remains calm as he walks, admiring the warm, golden rays of the sun that have begun to mingle with the nip in the air and the pale, stone walls of the university that peek through clusters of muted green vines and ivy.

It’s really rather peaceful, actually.

He kicks at pebbles and smiles at passerby and hums Grease songs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, then takes them out, then stuffs them back, all the while as he continues to walk. And he absolutely does not feel anything except for a strange sense of serenity that engulfs his limbs.

And so, when he reaches Satan’s door, he knocks with a steady hand, feeling oceanic waves of calm crash over him as he sniffs at the cool air and the soft perfume of flowers that it carries with it.

The door opens, painfully slow.

There he is, Harry, and Louis does a double take as he processes the scene before him; because Harry is wearing a gray, knit JUMPER and JEANS and fuck—Louis didn’t know he possessed anything besides suits, bow ties, tacky patterns, and velvet.

He stares in surprise.

“It’s rude to stare,” Harry points out, eyes unimpressed as he watches Louis, arms crossed.

“You’re wearing normal clothes,” is all Louis can manage in surprise, and Harry merely glowers as he steps back and allows Louis inside, no word said in response.

He walks into the large room and, much to his surprise, it’s rather different from when he was last there—which immediately sparks the image of a sleeping, unkempt Harry and a quietly doting Louis, and he winces away his thoughts as he focuses his attention on the bushels of white lilies covering every flat surface and the large paintings that adorn every inch of space on the walls. Paintings that look oddly familiar.

“Zayn’s?” he questions, motioning towards a large canvas of fiery stars hanging above the mahogany and marble fireplace.

Harry, glower still firmly intact, merely nods, standing at a distance with his hands folded behind his back. He almost looks soft, with his loose jumper and rumpled jeans and powdery, askew curls, but the diamonds from his Chanel watch cut through the air, almost as much as his cold, empty stare, and Louis is reminded that Harry Styles is anything but ‘soft.’

“You’ve remodeled,” Louis comments, eyes flicking to the candles that cluster the floors, shelves, and tables, woven between the large and worshiped collection of cat statues, and arranged neatly on the tables amidst champagne bottles. Antique guitars and lutes are scattered about, and crinkled sheet music litters the floors amongst soft yellow rose petals and drips of what Louis assumes is Dom Perignon.

“I change my rooms every week,” is the low, mumbled response.

He glances over to him. “You mean, you hire someone else to change your rooms every week _for_ you.” Louis smiles brightly.

Harry scowls.

There’s silence.

“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Harry murmurs in a growl, and slumps towards the large, antique wooden desk in the corner, flopping himself down in the plush velvet chair before it. “I’m just going to draw up an outline for you,” he mumbles in a poisonously slow tone, eyes lidded and following his careful movements of…assembling _a quill and ink?_

And oh fuck. Is that _parchment?_

“Christ sake,” Louis laments, standing before the desk, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “Can’t you just use a bloody laptop, man? We’re going to be here all fucking day if you do that. We’re _studying_ the Victorian era, not fucking living it.”

A tiny quirk pricks at the corner of Harry’s lips, but other than that, no reaction is made as he slowly dips his quill in the ink and smooths out the parchment before him. Wordlessly, he begins writing.

Louis sighs loudly, and very dramatically, but Harry pays no mind, instead delivering an elaborate scrawl.

After moments of silence, in which Louis tries to keep his back to the scene in a display of protest but fails (his curiosity was always his weakness) he asks, peering over the desk and attempting to decipher Harry’s neat, swirling handwriting, “You can at least tell me what you’re writing.”

“An outline,” Harry rumbles without hesitation.

Louis rolls his eyes. “So I heard. About what? You haven’t even asked to see the course schedule or my books or—“

“I know the professor. I also know the course. I assure you, this is everything you’ll need to know. Now, stop questioning me.” And Harry’s eyes never leave the paper, bored and confident and sightless.

“Oh, bravo,” Louis mumbles with another roll of the eyes, but he remains silent (if not for the mere fact he can’t think of anything to say) as he begins to pace around the room, arms still crossed, surveying the nooks and crannies of Harry’s chaos.

“Do you play these old things?” he asks, nudging a dusty and decrepit lute with his toe.

“Yes. And don’t touch them.”

“I’m surprised they don’t break.”

“Well, if you’re not an idiot, it’s pretty easy to avoid those kinds of things.”

Louis’ temper begins to prickle. But instead of throwing himself into an argument which would only serve to lengthen this acute form of torture (why had he agreed to this again?) he clamps his mouth shut and stares into the sightless eyes of the porcelain cats that are now before him.

And then a shuffle sounds from behind him, and Louis spins around just in time to see a beautiful boy with devastating cheekbones and coal black hair emerge from Harry’s room, clad in a disheveled school uniform and smoking a cigarette.

Which is unexpected.

“Oh!” Louis starts, dropping his arms to his sides, taking a step back in surprise. “I didn’t realize you had company.” He blinks, feeling immediately awkward as he stares between the two, Harry still scribbling, the boy just standing and eying Louis as he takes a long drag.

“He was just leaving,” Harry says mildly without a beat of hesitation, and the boy gives one last lingering look to Louis before nodding his direction and walking towards the door.

“See you, mates,” he calls, before the door closes.

And Louis just stands there.

“Are you serious right now?” he suddenly bursts, turning to Harry who seems completely unfazed. “Do you realize every single time I’m here, a random person emerges from your bedroom? How many people are in there? Are they like fucking gremlins? Do they multiply when you pour water on them?”

“Hm, very much so,” Harry mumbles, and that very faint quirk of the lips is back as he continues writing. “And, as you can see, if you feed them after dark they turn into a nightmare in the morning.”

… Did Harry just make a joke? Or was he being a dick?

Louis eyes him suspiciously. “Well, regardless, you could have told me there was another person here.”

“Why?” Harry hums, bored, hand flying across the parchment.

“So I wouldn’t wee myself when they suddenly materialized out of thin air.”

“He didn’t materialize.”

“Says you.”

At that Harry glances up at Louis, pen momentarily stilling, his eyes assessing and empty. But faintly, just faintly, Louis can almost see a stirring…

“Well, that’s all for today,” Harry suddenly drawls, standing up with a flourish and setting down his quill. “This outlines the chapters you need to pay special attention to. I’ve written down the key words, but you’ll have to look them up yourself. We’ll go over the details tomorrow; this is just to familiarize you with the general concepts since you seem to have trouble grasping even that.”

And, yes, that is most certainly condescending.

“Thanks so much,” Louis glares, snatching the parchment out of Harry’s hands. “No need to be a dick about it.”

Harry stares at him, cold, lips tight and pursed into a thin line. “You best run off, novice. I need to depart. I’ve an engagement I’m already quite late for.”

Louis snorts. “An engagement? You mean you’ve got to meet up with your next potential fuck?”

“There’s nothing potential about it. And it’s ‘fucks’. Plural,” he says with a languid blink and dopey smile that holds all the poisons of the world, just beneath the surface.

“Oh, of course. There’s never just one.”

“Variety is the spice of life.”

“So are venereal diseases.”

Harry’s eyes immediately narrow. “I wouldn’t know.”

“The trickiest ones are the silent ‘uns. Best get on that before something falls off, mate!”

“Don’t call me ‘mate.’ Now go.”

But Louis just stands there in defiance, arms crossed and clutching the parchment that he so very desperately wants to shred in Harry’s face right now because, FUCK, he’s annoyed. But he doesn’t.

After a moment of mutual distaste, Harry sighs and storms past Louis, heading straight towards his room, curls bouncing. It’s just as he’s about to stalk inside, that he pauses at the door, making firm, unyielding eye contact with Louis who glares from his spot on the other side of the room.

He braces himself, taking in the chasms of green before him.

“And when you’re finished with that,” Harry finally says, motioning to the parchment in Louis’ fist, “make sure to tap it and say, ‘Mischief managed.’”

And then the door snaps shut.

And Louis blinks.

Because what the actual fuck?

Did he just…quote Harry Potter?

But before he allows himself to even attempt to wrap his head around the situation at hand, Louis marches out the door and doesn’t look back once.

**

When Louis returns to his flat, he finds a note from Niall that reads:

_“At the studio._

_Working on the track._

_Smoke and eat when I get home.”_

 

And it’s paired with a cigar, a tenner, some lint, and a pack of gum. In other words, the contents of Niall’s pockets.

So Louis is alone.

And even better, Zayn’s just texted him.

_‘How did tutoring go? ;)’_

Louis shakes his head as he taps out a response.

_‘You fucker.’_

Sometimes Louis really hates his life.

**

It’s Friday.

Glorious Friday.

And, despite being woken up too early by both the piano AND the drum set, (“I’m practicing, you cunt!”) Louis feels strangely optimistic. Perhaps because last night, after Niall had finally returned, they, along with Zayn and Liam—apparently Harry’s potential fucks were going as planned, as he was mysteriously absent and Louis absolutely refused to ask why—had a delicious dinner in a small restaurant with low lighting and good liquor before spending the rest of the night in Liam’s rooms, lounging amongst laptops and textbooks as they attempted homework intermittently between serenading each other with songs at the piano. Which, Louis is coming to discover, is an actual thing they do—Liam belting out opera as Niall plays one minute, Zayn crooning soulfully in Italian the next—and it’s all taken very seriously, so Louis just watches, unable to deny that the boys have talent, real, actual talent. Louis almost wants to call it 'classy' but the porn that was being played on mute, plastered across the giant flatscreen, sort of took something away from it. Occasionally they’d step outside and smoke cigarettes on the balcony, watching the curls of smoke disappear into the stars as they laughed while Niall repeatedly begged to abandon studying and scour the city for clubs and good drugs.

It was a good night. Just what Louis needed.

And now he has a whole weekend ahead of him that’s going to be filled with sleep, late night runs for cakes and everything else Niall so desires when he’s having his cravings, weed, video games, parties, good drink, and track pants. And still better, Zayn’s planned on taking them to “Candle House” (as Zayn and Harry refer to Zayn’s spring home) and there’s not going to be anybody there but them, some escargot, croquet, and all the time in the world.

So, needless to say, Louis is excited. And he’s just finished his courses for the day.

“I want it to be tomorrow,” Louis wails, draped over the couch. “I want to go to Zayn’s spring home. Have you ever been?” he asks Niall, craning his neck to stare at the boy sat behind him as they stuff éclairs in their mouths and plow through FIFA.

“Nah,” Niall muffles through his stuffed mouth. “But I’ve heard good things.”

“I’m excited. This weekend’s going to be sick, Ireland. Sick! We should have dinner tonight, just the two of us, to celebrate the festivities.”

“Can’t, sorry. I need to take a nap and—“

“Why on earth do you need a nap? All you ever do is sleep.” Louis peers over at him as the boy rubs his eyes, his golden hair mussed and greasy.

“I was up all night after we came home. Rory made me do half of that project for my ‘Audio and Visual’ course,” Niall yawns, wrapping a blanket around himself as they wait for their next match to load.

“Oh, you poor creature,” Louis tuts sarcastically, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “You actually had to do your own homework? The shame.”

“Hush, you,” Niall scolds, but grins goldenly as he swaddles himself, leaving only his face to poke out.

Louis grins, eyes crinkling. “You look like a little baby.”

“I am a little baby. Now let me sleep!”

“But we’re supposed to go to that party later! Sleep when you’re dead!”

“I’ll sleep now _and_ go to the party later, how does that sound?”

Louis ponders, hands suspended in midair on their route to rip Niall’s blanket off of him, before they drop. “All right, fine. But what am I going to do until then? Zayn and Liam are at their stupid meeting for the stupid Student Union,” he pouts, sinking deeper into the couch.

“Don’t you have tutoring with Harry?”

Louis’ stomach recoils.

“No,” he lies.

“Yes you do.”

“…Well, I’m not going.”

“Louis.”

He pouts at Niall, sinking still deeper into the cushions. “You should have heard how foul he was to me yesterday! I’m not tolerating that again! I might kill him.”

“Just go, you need the help.”

“No.”

“Louis.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I’ll just tell him to come here.”

Louis stares at Niall, jaw dropped. “You wouldn—“

“You know I would.”

He narrows his eyes, sitting up on his elbows. “I actually hate you, Niall Horan.”

“Fine. Just _go_ , goddammit. And let me fuckin’ sleep!”

And as much as Louis hates following orders, he does actually go, flicking off the TV and game console while donning Niall’s jumper and fluffing up his hair with one hand, ignoring the pangs of dread in the bottom of his stomach at the prospect of another tense afternoon spent with Harry Styles.

**

“You came,” Harry grumbles as soon as he opens the door, his tone suggesting he was ardently hoping for the opposite.

“I came,” Louis repeats flatly, and his own tone suggests the same.

With a long suffering sigh, Harry walks back into his rooms, leaving the door wide open for Louis behind him.

“Anymore gremlins today?” he asks as he makes his way inside, dumping his bag on a chair and settling onto the chaise longue.

“I’m alone,” is all Harry snaps, stalking past Louis in his black button up and black trousers, hair quiffed and messy with curls. “I’ll just get this written up, then, seeing as it’s Friday and I have a life to live.”

“As do I. I have to get ready for that party Zayn’s been talking about,” Louis sniffs, smoothing out his [Niall’s] jumper.

Harry pauses, staring at him with something akin to revulsion. “You’re going?”

“Of course I’m going,” Louis glares. “Zayn’s my mate.”

“He was mine first,” Harry counters as he sits at the desk, eyebrows furrowed deep as he dips his quill in the murky ink, careful to dab the tip against the glass for excess drips. He then begins making work of the parchment before him, the quill scratching efficiently as Harry watches his own scrawl with lazy, pale green eyes, bottom lip bitten between his teeth, the dust-swirling sunbeams that shine through the room soaking him in gold and shadow.

And Louis can’t help but glare because he hates how poetic this fucker looks right now, with his Greek-mythology styled curls and clusters of eyelashes that would have spiraled Keats into depression and worn Byron’s fingers to the bone. Especially when Louis keeps pin-balling between being convinced that he’s a demon and a broken angel.

But a broken demon is probably more accurate.

“I’ll just sit here, then. No need to talk,” he mumbles, flashing his eyebrows upward and ripping his eyes away from the scene before him. “I mean, why would you want to ask me if I understood everything from last night’s assignment? That would just be strange.”

Harry’s jaw sets. “I’ll ask you on Monday, though I already know the answer.” His murky stare flashes up to Louis’. “It’s not like you’ll be touching this during the weekend, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis snaps.

“That you’re not going to touch this during the weekend anyway,” he repeats slowly, and now he’s stopped writing and is full on glaring at Louis, quill poised in one hand, the other clenched in a fist atop the desk.

Louis shakes his head, scoffing. “You know, you really are the most incredible piece of—“

But Louis is swiftly cut off by the sharp vibration of the phone in his pocket.

Shooting one more glare in Harry’s direction (who has already begun writing again) he slides it out, already prepared to answer Niall and exaggeratedly complain about Harry, but then he sees the caller ID.

And it’s not Niall.

 _Mum_.

“Fuck,” he hisses, feeling his heart drop immediately. Because he hadn’t texted her back yesterday, had he? Or called. How could he have fucking forgot?

Because he’s been corrupted by this fucking school, that’s how.

He continues to stare at the screen, psyching himself to answer as it continues to vibrate expectantly, and he feels Harry’s quiet gaze flicker up to him as he bounces his leg nervously. Shutting his eyes firmly tight, he swipes the phone and brings it to his ear before he can change his mind.

“Hey!” he greets in his happiest tone, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Lou? Louis?” he hears his mother answer, almost frantically. God.

“Yes?”

“Where have you been? Why’ve you been ignoring me? You up to trouble?”

“What? No, I—“

“It’s your fucking father, isn’t it?” she all but screeches, and Louis winces, pulling the phone away from him momentarily.

“What are you on about? I haven’t even—“

“He sends you to that bloody school and now you think you’re too good for us." She's such a mess.

Louis’ fists clench. Yep. This is exactly what he’d been fearing. And expecting.

“Where are you?” he grits out.

“I’ve been a mess, Lou,” she admits quietly, and he can hear the sniffles. “I can’t do this on my own, I can’t.”

“Where are you?” he repeats, louder, keeping his voice steady.

“I’m in the park.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah, of course.”

 _Of course?_ He sees red. “Where are the girls?”

“Margaret’s watching them, she’s old enough now, love.”

“She’s only eleven. Go home.”

“I can’t right now. I can’t do it, Louis—“

“Go. Home.”

There’s a pause as Louis rubs at his forehead, and all he hears is his mother’s quiet breath and the static of a breeze on the other end of the line.

“What’s gotten into you?” she suddenly asks, voice quivering. “You used to be here, you used to care for us. Now you’ve gone and left—you’re just like your bloody father.”

His blood boils at the accusation. It shouldn’t, really, not when he’s heard it before, but it still stings and his jaw clenches as he focuses his attentions on a particularly soothing painting of Zayn’s before him—an ocean. It’s filled with blues that swirl. Just like real water. “I won’t have it, Lou, I won’t have it!” she continues, shouting through the receiver. “I’ve raised you better!”

There are greens in the water, too. Greens mixing with the blues.

Louis rises, fisting his jumper in his free hand as he grips onto the phone, white-knuckled, and stands directly in front of the painting, immersing himself in it, his back to Harry whose scribbles have now ceased entirely.

“Just stop it. Please. Stop this and go home. Go now. You can’t leave the girls on their own. You know this. You can’t do that shit anymore—I’m not going to be there to fix it this time. I’m not.”

As Louis waits, his nerves grating, he hears her faint whisper. “Come home.”

“What?”

“Come home. Please come home,” she pleads.

But pity is lost on him, and instead he feels another surge of anger and annoyance. “No.”

“Come home!” she says louder, but Louis only shakes his head.

“No.”

“Then I’m coming to get you.”

“What? No! Go home, the girls are there, just go—“

“I’m on my way, and I’m taking you home with me.” Her emotions are frazzled, obviously, and her voice shakes in its determination.

“WOULD YOU CALM DOWN,” Louis begins to shout at the receiver, now gripping his hair in frustration, because fuck, no, his mother can’t do this now, she cannot do this now. Not when Louis is just beginning to like this place, not when things are going so smoothly [for the most part], not when he’s finally had a chance to breathe after all these years of being both child and parent because he was unlucky enough to be born into a selfish family that festers in their own emotions. “Don’t you dare come here, I won’t—“

But the dial tone rings, and Louis knows, he just knows, his mum is on her way.

Because this is what she does. She panics. And she drags Louis to fix the mess.

But not this time.

Without reaction, he immediately texts Stan.

_‘Pls go to my house? Mum’s at it again, sisters home all alone.’_

And almost instantly he gets a response. ‘ _Sure thing mate’_

And he just really loves his best mate.

By the time he looks up, he’s all but forgotten where he is and who he’s with. Until he sees Harry, brow furrowed, staring at him from the desk, clutching the quill in both hands absently, sliding his fingertips over the feathers and looking somewhere between cross, alarmed, and unsettled.

And he continues to stare.

Louis, having no fight left in him and absolutely dreading the return to his flat where he’ll have to deal with the hot mess that is his mother, only stares back.

Then Harry clears his throat.

“Who was that,” he asks nonchalantly, eyes now averted as he corks the ink bottle and wipes the remaining ink off of the quill with a small vermillion cloth.

“My mum,” Louis admits lamely, running a hand over his face.

Harry nods, continuing to clean the quill with painfully slow movements. “She’s coming to get you?” he asks, but his voice is odd, slow in its usual drawl, but off in timbre.

“Yeah,” Louis says simply, and leans against the bookshelf.

“She’s going to your flat?”

Louis nods dazedly, eyes lost in thought. “Yeah, she is.”

And fuck.

_Fuck._

He groans, then proceeds to bang his head off of the side of the bookshelf. “I would give anything to disappear right now,” he laments, and he shuts his eyes, gripping the wood with both hands in a tight grasp.

“Well, you can’t stay here,” is all Harry says in a tart tone, sliding the freshly scrubbed quill into the drawer before adjusting his sleeves.

“I assumed as much,” Louis says flatly, shooting him a glare. “Besides, it wouldn’t help any. Niall would just tell her where I am. He’s oblivious like that.” He sighs, bringing his hands up to cup his face. “This is going to be horrible. Fucking horrible.”

Harry’s glare deepens as he begins picking at a loose hem on his shirt, but he remains silent.

“Might as well get it over with though, eh?” Louis continues. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” And with that, he pushes himself off of the bookcase and heads towards his shoulder bag.

Then Harry shoots up out of his seat.

“Follow me,” he says suddenly in a clipping tone, and his eyes are emotionless as he makes his way forward.

Louis blinks as he watches Harry grab his phone and a small cluster of keys off of the mantle. He glances at his Chanel watch, repeats something quietly to himself, then dons a fedora that had been resting on the coat rack.

And Louis just watches, because what the fuck? Did Harry Styles just ask Louis to _follow_ him? Surely not.

But apparently he did, because now Harry is moving towards the door and pulling it open, staring at Louis with a bored expectancy, a hint of impatience in the dance of his long, leather-clad feet.

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you deaf?” he asks, but it’s less snapping and more sighing, though his glare is still present and his general vibe reeks of supreme distaste.

But distaste be damned, Louis can only assess the two options as they are:

  1. Refuse the smarmy bastard before him and go back to his flat and face his train wreck of a mother. And all that entails.



Or.

  1. Follow Harry Styles, who very much hates him, has already threatened his well-being, and could very possibly kill him.



One is responsible, one is reckless. And Louis was never really anything but reckless.

“Don’t sass me, Curly,” he says, striding up to Harry. “Now walk.”

And with a very slight smirk playing upon his lips, Harry takes off in his dopey skulk, Louis following close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this fic is the fic that never ends. It goes on and on my friends. My mind is insanity and this fic will probably reflect that. But oh well, cuz it's fun, right? :)
> 
> Thanks to all my moonbabies who are oh-so-sweet about this fic and say such nice things and keep me company. I want to be friends with all of, ALL OF YOU, so chat with me and let's look at One Direction photos together and cry about things, mkur? 
> 
> <3 
> 
> BY THE BY: Another good song for this fic: "The Suburbs (Cont'd)" by Arcade Fire. Listen to it. Feel it. Understand me. 
> 
> <3


	14. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes Louis.

Harry keeps checking his phone.

Which is ironic, because Louis is doing the exact opposite—he’s _shut off_ his phone. For fear of incessant phone calls from his mum. That he may have been tempted to answer.

But only to have stopped the incessant ringing.

They’re barreling down a country road in the antique car (much to Louis’ confusion: “Isn’t this Zayn’s car?” “We share it,” Harry had said simply, then gotten in without another word), having long left their little town, and neither has spoken a word since Louis agreed to follow Harry. And Louis is sort of, maybe, panicking, but he’s keeping his shit together as he sits in the passenger seat trying to figure out just what the fuck is happening. And why the fuck he agreed to be here.

It’s nearing evening, the cloudless sky tinged with citrus hues, and the honeysuckle and cotton blossoms soak the crisp air. Harry and Louis ride along in their windy silence, their frames saturated in amber light as breezes ruffle through hair and lick at skin. Sunlight and trees glide past them in streaks as they wind down the road. Louis drums his fingers on the door, on his thigh, everywhere, his feet shuffling as he flicks stubbornly curious eyes at Harry occasionally, very secretly desperate for an explanation or a sense of ease. But he tries his best not to stare fully, and so he turns his head the opposite way, pretending to take in the blurred scenery.

But he’s acutely aware of Harry and his every move.

Harry.

Harry with his furrowed brow that never blinks as his soft curls whip into his face, his lips set in a tight line. Harry who’s checking his phone every other minute, face void of emotion minus the creases and the tightness. Harry who was in a foul, shitty mood and made the world thunder before whisking Louis away to safety without rhyme or reason.

Well. Hopefully safety. There’s still that chance that murder is eminent.

They’ve been driving for ten minutes and Louis can’t stop picking at the hole in his jeans.

Ten whole minutes of driving.

And Harry still hasn’t told them where they’re going.

And Louis is a really, really curious person.

“All right. I need to know,” he finally bursts, turning to face Harry, whose eyebrows are knitted together, eyes intent on the road. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere.”

“That doesn’t count as an answer,” Louis says crossly, rolling his eyes. “And you can stop with the attitude. I have a right to know.” He pauses. “You could be taking me somewhere to kill me.” He watches Harry’s reaction closely.

“I wouldn’t _kill_ you,” Harry says, sounding as if it’s the most ridiculous notion in the world. “That’s messy.”

Oh wow.

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! My bad! You could be taking me somewhere to have _someone else_ kill me, then.”

And Harry keeps silent at that.

Which is, maybe, slightly worrisome.

Overcome with unease (he doesn’t think he’s ever been in a more awkward situation in his life) Louis reaches out to fiddle with the radio which looks completely at odds with the vintage vehicle, if he’s being honest. He flicks it to the first station he can think of.

“Aaaaaalright,” the DJ’s voice booms through the silence and the wind, and Harry’s eyes flick sideways before settling back on the road. “Well there it is. ‘One Heart’ by Electra, their brand new single, out October 16th. It’s sure to have the kids dancing, isn’t it, Ted?”

“Right you are,” Ted agrees, and Louis smirks at their grandiose, exaggerated voices, noting Harry’s white knuckles on the steering wheel as he glances once more at his phone which sits on his thigh. “But that won’t be the only hit for Nick Grimshaw this year, will it?”

“No?”

“He’s got that new single with Des Styles, hasn’t he?”

And Louis stiffens at the name, and he thinks Harry might, too.

“Ahh, yes, you’re right. And they’re sure to deliver—they always do! Speaking of Des, he’s had a bit of a—“

But the radio switches off then, Harry’s hand flying to silence it, and Louis starts, looking over at him in alarm.

“I was listening to that!” he complains, but Harry’s brow only furrows further, his silence taking on a new edge.

“I wasn’t,” he counters, as if that’s all the reason in the world needed to end the conversation.

Which, normally, would spur Louis to do the exact opposite, but Harry’s cold eyes flick back down to the black screen of his phone, and Louis can’t bring himself to argue amidst the already-there layers of tension and silent chaos.

So Louis lets it go. Because whatever those radio cronies were about to say in regards to Des, Harry didn’t want to hear it. Or did he not want Louis to hear it?

“That’s funny that Niall’s doing the drum bits for your dad’s new song,” Louis drops conversationally, unable to resist pressing the matter just a tiny bit.

Harry nods quietly, knuckles white, but says nothing.

“I think he’s actually going back tonight for more work. That should be fun.”

Which makes Harry turn his head sharply. “He’s already been at the studio?” he asks, attention piqued.

“Er, yeah, two days ago or summat. Didn’t you know?”

Harry’s face reacts, just barely, almost too sudden for Louis to catch. He blinks steadily, and his lashes catch in the gold of the sun. “Was Des there?” he asks in a controlled tone, ignoring Louis’ question, and though Louis hears nonchalance on the surface of each word, he feels the tension sparking beneath Harry’s skin.

“No. He wasn’t,” is all Louis says.

And the silence returns, filled only by the wind that whips against the car and through their bodies.

And Louis silently wishes for an anvil to drop on him.

**

When they reach their destination, the last road Louis expects Harry to turn onto is a long, winding cobblestone one that snakes through willow trees and endless expanses of green grass. And the last sight he expects to see as they wind their way further down is the large, beautiful mansion with classic architecture and Corinthian columns, sat in front of gardens and elaborate fountains at the end of the property, tall, silent, and shadowed by the midday clouds.

“Holy shit,” Louis breathes under his breath, but Harry makes no move. “I thought we were going to go to Starbucks or something,” he mumbles, staring at the sight before him with wide eyes.

Harry smirks, the tiniest bit, stormy walls of his eyes flickering for a millisecond as they make their way further toward the house, Louis staring betwixt Harry and said house with a mixture of awe and confusion.

They ease into the roundabout that lies before the enormous expanse of stairs and entryway, large marble vases overflowing with roses and ivy sitting on either side of them. It’s even more enormous up close, and more beautiful, and Louis stares with a full dropped jaw at the balconies and archways, vaguely aware that he should be Snapchatting this to Stan as he spots an actual fucking gargoyle sat at the top of the tallest peak.

“Welcome to my house,” comes Harry’s sudden drawl as they park the car.

And Louis’ jaw only drops just that bit more, because he genuinely thought they were at a fucking museum. Not Harry’s _home_.

“Sweet mother of god,” he mutters, sending Harry into an irritated eye roll as they emerge from the car.

When they enter the house, Louis is actually expecting Alfred from Batman to pop out of nowhere, opening the door for them and offering champagne on a tray despite Harry’s gruff explanation of “Our butler’s on holiday so we haven’t got the staff here today.”

Which, really, is fucking insane enough itself.

Louis immediately notes that it’s dark, very dark, the windows shrouded in curtains, sealed off from the world, and not one light is on anywhere. The furniture is draped with soft, white sheets, everything is still as stone, and it smells of wilted flowers and faded cologne. It seems empty somehow despite its grandiose appeal, and though it took Louis’ breath away from the outside, the inside feels intensely barren and hollow, and Louis doesn’t like the feel of it one bit.

He is also becoming increasingly certain that he is, indeed, being brought to a sacrificial alter.

Harry stalks ahead wordlessly, heels of his boots clicking through the shadowed, empty halls, echoes bounding through the limitless ceilings and renaissance paintings that are hung at every turn. The marble beneath Louis’ Toms is cold and shiny as he follows closely, not knowing what else to do, and he can’t imagine why anyone would desire such a floor as it is absolute murder on the feet. But, then again, he can’t imagine this place was designed for comfort in the first place.

They whip through room after room, Harry’s stride purposeful as he examines every inch of space, opening closets and sliding his palms along the thick, embroidered curtains that cover every window from the lingering sun, leaving only shrouds of darkness and slivers of struggling faded light; every room is cold and shadowed in blues, and Louis wonders why they can’t flick on a damn light or, god forbid, pull back the curtains.

But he doesn’t question it—not when he sees the tight clutch Harry has on his phone or the crease between his brows as he glides forward, shoulders stiff beneath the crisp confines of his black buttoned shirt, rolled up to his milky elbows, revealing bits of tattoo. He continues his search for something nameless, apparently immune to the darkness, and Louis follows close behind because he doesn’t know what else to do.

It’s odd. It’s weird. It’s strange as fuck. There’s tension and silence and Harry’s eyes are somewhere distant, barely comprehending Louis is with him at all—and why the fuck is he? He assumed Harry was taking him somewhere random, just as a distraction. He assumed this trip was _because_ of him, and not just to tag along as Harry runs errands or takes an aimless pit stop at home or whatever the fuck they’re doing.

So Louis’ mind whirrs as he follows the click of the heels, thousands of questions and accusations sitting on the tip of his tongue, barely restrained.

Then suddenly Harry stops, unlocks his phone, and throws a glance in Louis’ general direction. “Wait here,” he says, and it’s so sudden, so unexpected, so loud in the still, silent space, that Louis can only blink before Harry disappears down a flight of stairs.

And he could wait, sure.

But Louis was never one to be told what to do.

So, feeling completely at odds with everything happening in his life in this moment of time (and he really wishes he could just turn on his phone and text his annoyance and distress to Niall) he turns on his heel and strays from the staircase Harry had just descended, instead walking up the staircase on the opposite end of the room and towards the only source of light he can see, pouring from a little room at the end of the left hall. He doesn’t think, just seeks the source, and walks carefully as if he were intruding, any noise made giving him away.

Each footstep connecting with the polished floor leads him closer to the streaming light, and while he tries not to think about where he is, what he’s doing, and with who, and WHY (as if he could think about anything else though, because what the actual fuck), his heart misses the memo, hammering uneasily in his chest. His palms sweat, too, so he wipes them on his jeans absently as he stares at the cold, painted faces of dead ancestors on the walls, the guilt molding, lavish wallpaper, and statues that rest on Ionic pedestals, proud and dead and untouched. But he looks away, feeling as if he’s seeing too much.

Because he’s in Harry’s house. Harry Styles’ fucking house.

And, yes, he knew he was rich, but he didn’t know he was, say, _Zayn_ rich—he expected a modern, lavish house with a pool in the living room and a TV that’s 3D and maybe a zebra running about or a gold toilet; but he most definitely did not picture an ornate mansion that would befit the Sun King.

His brain can’t stop asking those persistent, nagging questions : Why is he here? Why did Harry bring him? He’s obviously on a mission of sorts, doing something important, something he’d been _meaning_ to do—he didn’t just come here on a whim. Harry has a purpose. Louis just doesn’t know what it is. And he certainly doesn’t know why he’s part of it. Judging from Harry’s behavior earlier, he certainly hadn’t wanted Louis’ company, was in an even worse mood than usual, and yet. Here they are.

Louis can’t even begin to make sense of it.

So he doesn’t. Instead, he strides into the room with the light pouring from it.

He finds a large, desolate space filled only with empty, ornate birdcages. Some hang from the ceiling, some stand alone, some sit atop the large, granite fireplace at the far end of the room. They vary in color and size, resting silent and still, their tiny bars chipped with paint and age. But Louis doesn’t focus on them despite their dominance in the room—instead, he finds the source of the light that cuts through them, and finds glass French doors opening to a balcony. The curtains that hang don’t cover them fully, leaving large strips of light exposed, and Louis walks up to them, pressing his hands against the warm glass.

And he just stands there.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing exactly—not when the room is too silent and too closed off and too eerie and too alien. Not when he’s not even sure if Harry will remember he’s there, or just forget him in this tall, dark, ornate prison of a mansion with its air that strangles the light and welcomes darkness. Not when he stares out at endless rose gardens and fountains of fish people vomiting water, and not when he’s surrounded by gold and glass and marble, all the while dressed in a Rolling Stones t-shirt and red jeans.

Because when Harry had whisked him away to evade mum, taking him to an empty mansion was the last place he expected.

So he just stands there, really, really wishing he hadn’t agreed to come.

**

Eventually, Louis searches for Harry.

Because he absolutely does not want to be left behind, and he’s uncomfortable and a little sick, and the day has been terrible, and he really just wants to return to his flat which suddenly seems a lot less ridiculously posh and smoke, drink, eat, and play video games.

Hell, at this point he would welcome just going home to listen to Niall play his goddamn piano.

So Louis searches the unfamiliar territory, leaving the stark birdcages behind, and finds Harry at last (after awkwardly knocking on closed doors, almost knocking priceless vases over, and finding dark rooms that were positively terrifying—one held actual fucking knight’s armor, rusted and all, encased in glass and standing on the far end so it very much looked like a very real threat) and he breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the tall, troubled boy with the phone pressed to his ear.

He’s standing in the middle of a large hall on the ground floor, fist clenched at his side, head bowed, muttering deep and mumbled words into the receiver.

Louis makes out only one sentence.

“He’s not here.”

And it’s said so hopelessly, so quietly, so very almost-tinged-with-fear, that Louis feels his chest cave again, just as he had on that day he’d stumbled upon him in his room, tears and all.

And fuck.

Louis is not equipped to deal with this boy. Not when he flounders between severe annoyance, distaste, confusion, and pity for him. And part of him wants to pull away, suck it up and turn on his phone, call Niall or his mum or whomever, and just catch a ride home, forgetting about today and Harry Styles and his carefully worded sentences and dripping blinks but, fuck, he can’t, he just can’t, and so Louis steps back into the shadows and waits for Harry to hang up the phone, his mind fighting the urge to race.

Because who’s not here? Who is Harry looking for?

Louis thinks he could know, might know, but doesn’t understand it; there are too many questions and no fucking answers--the most infuriating thing in the world, to Louis--and so he doesn’t begin to analyze or pick apart, he just waits.

Harry mutters a farewell after a few more murmurs, before dropping his hand to his side, phone still tight in his grip. His head is still bowed, and as Louis leans further, he catches sight of his eyes which are determined, almost manic, and fighting back a thousand emotions that seem to burst beneath his skin.

It makes Louis’ palms itch.

“There you are!” he finds himself bursting aloud suddenly, unable to watch whatever it is that’s happening any longer, bounding out from the shadows and towards Harry. He adopts his sassiest tone, his most relaxed limbs, and raises an eyebrow in annoyance, steadily ignoring the pangs of emotions that irritate him within.

Because, no. Louis is not emotional. And no, he does not care about the mess that is Harry Styles.

Harry turns around, his face immediately masked, eyes cool and assessing as they settle on Louis.

“I told you to wait,” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket.

“I know,” Louis says simply, and sends a sugary smile.

Harry studies him for a moment, eyebrows on the brink of annoyance, before he scoffs a bit and averts his gaze. But it’s not nearly as cold as Louis has seen come from him before, and he feels another pang.

“This is some place,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets as he takes in the room before him. It would be the perfect setting for a ball. “Can’t imagine living in a house like this.”

Harry shrugs, remaining silent.

“You quite proud of it, then?”

“Of what?”

“Living here. Coming from all this.”

Harry looks around, expressionless, as he takes in the high, vaulted ceilings and tapestries. “Not really,” he says, simply and monotonously. “It makes no sense to me.”

Louis steadies his gaze onto him, surprised, and quirks his eyebrow. “Then we have something in common, after all.”

Harry’s own stare slides to Louis, and their eyes lock, Harry’s boring into him unblinkingly. Louis can feel the pangs beneath the surface, the swirls and a thousand other things, and even when he clears his throat, Harry doesn’t look away.

“Well?” he suddenly questions, breaking the silence, “Aren’t you going to show me around?” He tilts his head inquisitively, taking a few steps towards Harry.

There’s a pause, and a cloud moves to cover the sun outside, muting the sunbeams that sneak through the cracks of the covered windows.

“No,” Harry finally says, but it’s said with such little conviction, his mind obviously in a thousand different places, and the exhaustion in the hallows of his eyes and tension written in his skin is enough to send tiny jolts through Louis’ bloodstream, stabbing at his heart.

And fuck.

Louis’ seen the darker bits of Harry, has seen his foul moods and his glares and his tears even, but this quiet anxiety within him is new, and it’s unsettling, very unsettling, and Louis doesn’t want to see the forlorn stress that pours from his skin any longer, because it’s making his fingers twitch and it rubs the back of his throat unpleasantly.

So, with a smile and a complete lack of thought, he walks up to Harry and finds himself nudging his elbow playfully into Harry’s side. “C’mon, then. Just a quick look? I might even get jealous. And hate my life, wishing I was you. Wouldn’t that be nice?” he teases with a large smile, and nudges into him once more, trying to soften the sharp edges of Harry’s expression.

And Harry…Harry fucking smiles in response. He _smiles_.

Harry Styles actually smiles.

It’s small (tiny, really), it struggles to bloom, and it’s paired with eyes that are still a little distant and dark, but his lips quirk and his dimple flashes, and it’s the softest, most sincere thing Louis’ ever seen, even if it is gone in a split second.

And Louis can hear the refusal, can see it building behind Harry’s eyes again slowly and—

“Okay,” he relents suddenly, his tone calm, quiet. And he leaves it at that. No charm slathered on, no quips, no winning smiles. Just a simple “okay” and he leads the way, his limbs relaxed as his long legs glide forward.

Louis stares after him, truly surprised, before catching up and stepping into place beside him.

**

Harry showed Louis all of the main floor, dutifully giving the names of each room and relaying a bit of history, and was being a very helpful tour guide. He was on the quiet side, surveying each room emotionlessly or, occasionally, watching Louis which Louis caught him doing only a handful of times, his eyes fixed and quiet as Louis touched every surface and commented on everything he deemed fit. (“That’s bad manners. You shouldn’t say things like that.” “What? You’re going to tell me it’s _not_ stuffy in here and smells of mothballs?” “It doesn’t smell of mothballs.” “But it is stuffy, innit?”And Harry didn’t respond, instead turning his head away and doing something that looked suspiciously like suppressing a small smile.) It all went surprisingly smoothly and calmly, their voices echoing and their glances just missing each other, weariness still lingering on the ends of them, but Louis almost found himself enjoying the situation, almost even enjoying Harry’s taciturn demeanor as it accompanied him through every room like a ghost.

Until they went upstairs. Where Harry suddenly disappeared.

And now, once again, Louis is alone and utterly confused, almost panicking, wondering where the fuck Harry could have possibly gone. They literally only just climbed the stairs, and all Louis did was bend over to pick up his phone which had slipped out of his pocket, and suddenly Harry was gone when he’d stood back up, either having evaporated or had found a fucking port key. So Louis begins walking aimlessly once more.

He searches, entering the nearest room and noticing a slightly ajar…door?...in the middle of the wall (it blends perfectly with its surroundings, Louis would never have noticed it if it wasn’t already open) and he shuffles towards it before hesitantly widening it. Surprisingly, it connects to another room, a wee library, and he sees yet another door across the way.

He follows this pattern, stumbling through elaborate room after elaborate room, until he finds a large, pale, barren room with long angora curtains billowing with the breeze from the open window, and finds Harry sitting alone on a large sapphire velvet and satin couch. The shadows almost swallow him and the breeze tickles his curls and the soft, blood red bow of his lips.

Louis stills, struck instantly with the image of a piano and the quiet desolation of Harry being alone and looking so frail. Why is this such a reoccurring image? Inside AND outside of Louis?

His chest lurches again, with pity and discomfort.

But Harry’s not crying, not this time, instead staring quietly out the open window, hands lying in his lap, feet crossed at the ankles, and he looks neat and folded and so, so small despite his endless limbs and semi-scowl that seems ingrained in his features.

So Louis wordlessly walks ahead and sits beside him on the couch, at the opposite end, and together they stare at the vibrant orange sun as it descends on the horizon.

“Are you all right?” Louis suddenly finds himself asking, but his words are quiet, barely cutting the calm of the scene, and they glide along the breeze gently enough for Harry to get away with pretending to not have heard.

But Harry’s head moves infinitesimally towards Louis before returning back, and his hands immediately clutch together, strong and tight.

“I’m always all right,” he answers, but his voice is emotionless and brittle.

It catches Louis off guard, the struggle in his voice, and he turns to him, stares at the boy, and he wants to poke, wants to pry and ask for more, but Harry’s eyes are lost. They’re lost and far away, and Louis doesn’t know what to ask.

So he returns to staring at the sun, hyper aware of Harry’s presence, despite Harry being almost completely unaware of his own.

Minutes upon minutes go by, and the sun is almost gone, sending its last, most glorious rays to the world, and Louis glances toward Harry, noting the phone that lies quietly on the table beside him, screen staring expectantly, as if Harry’s waiting for a call. Maybe even begging for one. But it doesn’t come, and Harry stares unseeingly and Louis fixes his hair, feeling uncomfortable and unsettled and _off_.

“I notice you’re a fan of creepy bird cages,” he then says, and Louis really wishes he could rip his own vocal chords out because why can’t he just stop talking? Why??

Harry doesn’t blink. “They’re not mine. I hate them.”

And Louis is surprised because such random, antique rubbish seems right up Harry’s alley.

“What? Why?”

“I like things to be free.”

Louis looks over to him again, fully now, and stares openly at the boy before him with his sculpted jaw and smooth skin and noble nose.

And in that moment, Harry looked anything but free.

And Louis can’t explain why. Or how.

And he doesn’t know what to do—fuck, what _can_ he do?—so he looks away, clutching the armrest tightly and bouncing his leg, wishing there was music or chatter or screaming or something to fill the pounding silence of the room and to fill every corner of Louis’ brain, because he doesn’t want to think about the boy next to him and he doesn’t want to feel the gnawing desire of needing to know what’s so very wrong, and he doesn’t want to question why Harry had said ‘he’s not here’ on the phone or why he goes missing for days at a time or why he falls into bed with everything with a heartbeat or why he glares at Louis but cries when he’s alone or why he looks so soft in the quiet spaces of the day, when no eyes are upon him.

So they continue to sit until Harry stands up, signals for Louis to do the same, and they leave in silence.

It’s as they’re leaving the house, the heavy doors shutting behind them, that Louis remembers why they’re here.

“Surely we’re not going back already,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks as Harry makes his way to the car.

Harry pauses, looking at Louis over his shoulder, furrowing. “Your mum wouldn’t really be there still, would she?” he asks, and Louis is taken aback. Because Harry actually remembers, despite the obvious piles of shit weighing on his mind? And Harry knows the dread in Louis’ statement was directed toward his mum, and that alone? He bears concern for the situation at hand? Human concern? For another?

Louis shrugs, swallowing his thoughts. “She probably would be, if I’m being honest, mate.”

Harry looks to the ground. When he looks back up at Louis, his face is stoic.

“Let’s look at the gardens. I have a new flower.”

And he takes off.

“You really need to work on your transitions!” Louis calls after him, but Harry’s already far ahead of him, probably out of earshot in the soft winds, and so Louis can only roll his eyes as he trots ahead, making to catch up with him as his heart beats to the knowledge that Harry is helping Louis keep away from his mum.

When he matches his pace alongside him, Harry’s face is still tense, giving nothing away.

“I don’t know many people who flit through flower obsessions quite like you do,” Louis comments, glancing sideways.

Harry shrugs as he walks. “Maybe the people you know are boring.”

“Oh? And you aren’t boring?”

“I’m many things, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, looking at Louis, the right corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile, “but I am anything but boring.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, as he usually does with Harry, but he shuts it almost immediately, thinking on the statement. “You know what, Curly? I’ll give that one to you. I can truly say you aren’t boring.”

And Harry’s face lightens immediately. Not incredibly, not largely, not even happily—it just lightens, like a light’s been flicked on in a room or the sun’s just peaked out from an eclipse, and though Harry doesn’t acknowledge Louis, he seems pleased with his answer, genuinely pleased, and so he begins to walk with a bit more purpose.

“Here. Here it is,” he says, pointing at a black and, quite frankly, terrifying flower.

Louis stares.

Harry emanates pride.

“I didn’t think it could be done,” Louis says, still staring at the thing before him. “But I have to say. That flower is fucking terrifying.”

And Harry almost looks like he wants to laugh as he stares at it, with its long, sharp ebony petals and black, ribboned strands that hang from the center. But he looks at it fondly, appraisingly, and Louis’ words only seem to deepen his affections for the subject at hand.

“I find it perfect.”

“Not even a little creepy?”

“Only in the good ways.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yeah it does,” Harry protests, and it’s so close to a whine that Louis looks to him with his eyebrows raised, a silent ‘Really?’ written in his brows.

Harry half-scowls through an unaffected smile, before returning his gaze to the flower before him. “I like it,” he says quietly, and a smile still plays on his lips, but it’s nothing to do with Louis. This is a moment between Harry and a terrifying piece of flora and, despite the absurdity of the situation, Louis really doesn’t want to break it, not when Harry’s having one of those rare moments where he resembles a human, so he keeps silent, hands stuffed in his pockets as he gazes at all the different flowers grouped together, colors sharp and cutting through the evening gloom.

“They’d look better in the sunlight,” Louis comments. “It’s too dark right now. They look dull.”

Harry shakes his head, eyes still on the flower. “No. That makes them more special.”

Louis scoffs. “Hardly. It makes them weaker. It’s when they’re standing there, out in the open, in full sun, that they’ll get my respect. Full sun and I’m there.”

Harry’s thoughtful gaze turns annoyed as he flicks his eyes up to Louis. “The full sun strips them away of anything interesting. They’re on display. Nothing left to the imagination. They’re boring.”

“Not boring. Bold. They’ve got nothing to hide. I like a good, sunny flower that can flaunt its petals.” And Louis doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying, doesn’t know why they’re even talking about this, but Harry is staring at him like it matters as he soaks in his words, and so he just goes along with it, turning his face away to stare up at the violet and cerulean sky, spotting a few spattered stars that are beginning to peak out. “Look,” he then says, pointing. “Stars.”

Brow still very much furrowed, Harry pulls his gaze away from Louis and up to the sky momentarily, before settling back on him. “I like that,” he suddenly says, as Louis begins striding through the garden path, wrinkling his nose at some of the more ostentatious flowers. “About the flowers being bold.”

“You like something I said?” Louis asks in mock surprise, unable to resist a bit of sass as he continues his stroll.

Harry watches him, almost curiously, almost wearily, hands folded behind his back. “They’re just words,” he says simply, almost confused by Louis’ statement, but his eyes are watchful, observant, and Louis only shakes his head.

“Not really, though. But whatever.”

Harry continues to watch him.

“You don’t like your mum,” he suddenly says out of nowhere, boldly, and it’s not a question, his eyes stuck on Louis.

Louis starts. “I never said that.”

“But you don’t like her.”

“I… Well. Of course I love her. But. I don’t always like her, no.”

“Why?” Harry asks, and it’s so forward, so unabashed, and so demanding, that Louis feels at odds with the conversation, can sense the challenge in Harry’s voice and doesn’t understand.

“Why did you save me from her?” Louis counters, ignoring the question (that he really didn’t feel like getting into with Harry of all people), and Harry blinks, face neutral.

“I didn’t save you.”

“You took me here.”

“I was running late because of you. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Tell me to leave. Obviously.”

“You don’t listen to me.”

“But I would have then. I was on my way out anyways.”

Harry falls silent. He averts his gaze, stroking long, slender milky fingers over the petals of the hideous flower. “I suppose I didn’t think about it. It doesn’t matter, regardless.”

The crickets begin singing. Or playing. Louis doesn’t really know what to call it.

Harry’s hand drops from the flower before he glances up at Louis. “It’s dark,” is all he says, the moonlight beginning to softly glow, painting his porcelain skin in eerie blues and dusting his curls in silver.

“She’s probably gone,” Louis says. “I doubt she’s waited this long. She’ll have gotten bored. So we can go.”

“I wasn’t waiting for her to be gone,” Harry says coldly, slowly, but it’s bullshit, Louis can smell it from here, and so he doesn’t protest, just begins walking towards the car and ignoring his biting retorts and eye rolls.

As they climb into the car, Louis shutting the door, he feels lighter. And this evening was weird, yeah, but it could have been a lot weirder. And if he’d been at his flat with his mum, it could have been a lot more terrible. So, all in all, despite Harry’s murky conversation skills (when he’s not “on” so to speak) and his penchant for looking at Louis like he’s a stain on the bottom of his shoe, Louis owes him.

Maybe a lot.

“I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for,” he says on a whim, looking over to Harry who freezes in the midst of shutting the car door.

Eyes staring ahead unblinkingly, Harry breathes, unmoving, Louis’ words seeming to marinate within him, before he breaks himself from his reverie and slams the door shut, that grimace back in place. Without a word, he buckles his seat belt and starts the car, and they drive off, Louis sneaking glances as they fly down the road, and Harry’s hands grip the wheel even tighter.

**

When Harry stops the car on the street outside of Louis’ building, he’s genuinely confused.

Because isn’t Harry going to just park by his own rooms and make Louis walk back to his? Like he always instructs Zayn to do whenever they take a drive?

“This is my building,” he says stupidly, and looks to Harry who looks very unimpressed, both eyebrows raised.

“I’m aware of that, thank you,” his voice oozes, and the deep velvety timbre of it is almost lost in the gloom of the night. Because Harry’s voice can be so loud and raucous and yet, sometimes, so soft and low that Louis thinks it could vanish; he thinks that if he weren’t able to see Harry, he wouldn’t be able to hear his words at all, their presence only established by the slow, twisted movements of his sinful lips.

“I guess I’m just surprised you’re not making me walk across town,” Louis replies dryly, throwing him a look.

Harry eyes him, still as stone beneath the stars. “That party’s tonight,” he replies, and Louis blinks because what? What does that have to do with anything at all?

“What are you talking about?” he asks bluntly, squinting his eyes and tilting his head with a ‘what the fuck’ air that he has perfected.

“If you walked across town, you’d be late for that party. You’d keep Zayn and Liam waiting,” Harry explains calmly, and okay, yeah, Louis definitely has no idea how Harry’s brain works at all. All he knows is that Harry’s train of thought is quite possibly the most scenic route available.

“Well then,” he says, as Harry checks his phone, “thanks, I guess.”

Harry nods. “And tell the boys I won’t be making it. I’m meeting up with someone.”

Someone. Of course.

“Will do,” Louis says shrewdly, unable to resist a shake of his head. “Should have known,” he mumbles under his breath.

Harry makes no move to reply, just taps a few things onto his phone before sliding it back in his pocket.

Louis’ tempted to bite something out, sling judgment or attitude Harry’s way before stalking off because Harry is always so damn cold, no matter how much time they spend together, no matter the progress he feels they almost make, and he’s pissed off about it, annoyed with it, and tired.

But then his mind wanders to the phone call with his mum (and, oh yeah, he should probably turn his phone back on) and he hears Harry’s words of 'Follow me' and he sees Harry stalking ahead to the garden when Louis feared they were returning, and he can’t be mad. Not really. Not fully.

And so he exits the vehicle, palms tingling and chest warm, while Harry waits and stares ahead silently. But before he closes the door, he turns to face him, smoothing out his features. He knows Harry won’t turn to meet his gaze because he’s already done and over the situation, ready to move on to the next scene.

But Louis says it anyway.

“Thank you, Harry. Really,” he says, and it’s genuine, probably the only genuine thing Louis’ ever said to Harry, as he stands there in his simple clothes and messy fringe, a bit of scruff lining his jaw.

As expected, there’s silence in return.

But Louis isn’t too bothered, having said what he’d wanted to say (and owing Harry nothing more) so he closes the door after a pause, then turns on his heel toward his flat, already preparing his greeting speech to Niall. Who is probably going to punch him in the face after having had to deal with his mum all evening.

It’s then, as Louis’ walking away and losing himself in internal monologue, that he hears Harry.

“You’re welcome, Louis.”

And Louis stops.

His heart quickens just that bit more and he feels jarred as he turns around slowly, completely taken aback by the quiet sincerity in Harry’s voice that was directed toward… _Louis_.

He finds Harry staring down at his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched and small, but Louis only keeps staring until Harry finally looks up.

And it’s such a clear gaze that meets Louis, so open and green and glinting under moonbeams, that he takes a sharp intake of breath. It’s not a kind or happy or sweet gaze—hell, it’s not even gentle. It’s just honest. It’s Harry looking back at him, walls removed and replaced with the fragility of openness, and it’s so alien and blatant and real, it’s as if Louis were staring at Harry naked.

Harry doesn’t blink, but Louis, feeling a million things fighting against his skull and ribcage, feels himself erupting into a soft smile, sending it into Harry, pelting him with it, before giving a short, respectful nod.

Harry’s eyes flit a bit in surprise and something else, then Louis turns around, slowly walking towards his flat.

He can’t help but feel that something has altered, something has changed between him and Harry, and, as he steps through the gates and admits himself into the walls of the ancient school, Louis thinks that, maybe, having Harry Styles as a friend wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case you're wondering what the hell kind of flower I was talking about that Harry loves, it's called a "Bat Flower" and it's absolutely terrifying and I don't quite know how it made its way in this story but, meh. There it is.
> 
> Thank you for all the sweet and lovely words I get from you beautiful people! I love you all. Sincerely. Love. 
> 
> ALSO. As you may know, I tag my inspiration pics for this pic as "this is inspiring me" on my tumblrrrr, but I've recently become even more of a finicky weirdo and tagged my ALL TIME ACCURATE pics n gifs under "Young & Beautiful." (mizzwilde.tumblr/tagged/young-&-beautiful) Basically, under that very elitist tag, I have all my EXACT images of who these boys are. So, there's some nice useless time wasting for you. :) 
> 
> The song for this chapter is called "Orphans of the Storm" and I wrote this while listening to it on repeat and HOLY SHIT GUYS because this song is perfect for this story, and, yes, especially this chapter. I particularly envision it when they're driving outside in the evening, the wind whipping through their hair, etc. I also envision it when they're flitting through the gloomy shadows of the house. Here it is, because I'm that adamant for you to hear it. :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tv2Xvzqqy_o
> 
> Thank you all for reading this long, dribbly, insane mess of a story. You're precious to me. <3 
> 
> PS. The mention of sacrificial murder is dedicated to Arl, and I promise not in a creepy or alarming way. :)) <3


	15. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis has time to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, niallnights (that's her tumblr, she's wonderful) for inspiring Berkley. :))
> 
> Also big love to Arl (scanda-louis) for giving me too many compliments and making me smiiiiile <3 
> 
> And more big love to ALL y'all. You're the nicest people ever, you're fun, I love you.

When Louis arrives back at his flat, he’s buzzing with the chaos of the day—more specifically, Harry—but it’s all soon replaced with the harsh reality of his mum and the aftermath that Louis will most certainly have to deal with in her wake.

Because, sure, she’s almost certainly gone. But she _was_ there, Louis knows she was there, and Niall was the one who had had to pick up the pieces.

And fuck, Niall’s going to be livid. Raging, Irish-ly, throwing-whiskey-bottles-at-the-walls livid.

So, pushing the very currently pressing and discombobulating thoughts regarding one Mr. Styles to the back of his mind, Louis braces himself as he opens his door, fully prepared for a tirade of incoherent Irish hatred.

He closes his eyes, just in case.

“There you are!” a pleasant voice greets him as he closes the door behind him with a dreaded click, and the voice sounds like Niall, but it’s far too kind to be Niall, so Louis peeks a curious eye open, back pressed against the door.

And it really is Niall.

Which…what?

“Yes. I am here,” Louis says suspiciously and nearly fearfully, eying the boy. He's sitting at the piano, half-dressed in preparation for the party, having obviously gotten distracted mid-primping; he's got on black trousers, a half-done belt, a vest, and hair that is still damp from the shower. Calmly, he tinkers at the keys while his phone sits on top of the instrument displaying sheet music he must’ve found online. Ever the musician, Niall.

“You just missed your mum,” he comments offhandedly, mastering a tricky little ditty with his clever fingers, and Louis really has no idea what’s going on right now, because he had just been beginning to suspect Niall’s general pleasantness was attributed to his mum having _not_ come after all…but apparently that is not the case.

So.

What?

“And?” Louis tempts, slowly walking towards Niall, prepared for any attack.

Niall looks up then, an easy smile painting his features as he shrugs his shoulders, hands still working the keys. “She’s nice. We had dinner.”

And Louis stares.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I took your mum to dinner.”

What the actual fuck.

“What—Why did you do that?” Louis splutters, staring at him as if he’d just spoken in tongues.

Which, to be honest, he sort of did.

“She was pretty upset when she came. So we had a nice chat, then I offered to take her to dinner. She felt better after that, stopped trying to call you, and we had chocolate mousse for dessert. Then she went home. Gave her a kiss on the cheek as she left, promised to ring. I think she misses having a son to dote on,” Niall says casually, and it’s so simplified and clear and utterly fucking random, that Louis can only continue to stare.

Because of fucking course Niall took his mum to dinner. And of course they bonded.

“Did she tell you why she came?” Louis asks wearily, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Not really. Said something about missing you, being worried about you. I dunno.”

Niall’s concentration is back to the piano, and Louis is tempted to press the matter (because, still, what the fuck?) but he doesn’t, feeling too emotionally demolished enough as it is.

“You’re going tonight, right?” he asks instead, after taking a gulp of water, eying Niall’s sleek trousers and freshly scrubbed skin.

“Course,” he says jollily, exaggerating his motions as he plays up the scale. “Like you’d let me stay back, anyway.”

Louis contemplates, drinking the dregs of his glass. “This is true,” he finally agrees, wiping his mouth.

A peaceful silence settles over them, piano tinkling pleasantly at medium volume (why can’t he play this calmly in the morning? Why is it always the fucking pipe organ at six A-bloody-M?) and though it’s comforting and safe, being locked back in his flat with Niall and the lush furniture and that goddamn noise box, Louis’ thoughts, which are pushing and pulling at the corners of his mind, seem louder somehow. Loud enough to invoke a paranoia within him that, somehow, Niall will be able to hear his inner panic.

“Where were you tho?” Niall then asks, soft blue eyes still set on the piano, and Louis is officially convinced that, yes, his thoughts can indeed be heard as he nearly drops his glass. “All this time? I thought you just went to your lesson with Harry?”

And oh shit.

“Well, obviously I did, Ireland _._ But then, uh….” Louis eyes the bottles of liquor sitting on their makeshift bar on the far end of the living room. “Well. Then mum called. You know how it is.”

Niall glances up curiously. “No. What happened?”

“Well, she were a right mess. Didn’t want to deal with it, did I? So…” Louis slides his hands into his back pockets, doing his best not to bite his lip or fidget but rather instead appear aloof.

“So?” Niall pushes, hands slowing on the piano. “Then what happened? You stayed at Harry’s? He let you?”

“No. He, uh.” Louis flicks his hair out of his face. “He took me to his house.”

The piano stops.

“What?”

“He took me to his house. Just, like, let me tag along while he looked for…something. Someone.”

Niall stares, displaying the confusion Louis feels. “He was looking for someone?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t find him though.”

“Him?”

“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.”

“Des?” he voices curiously, and Louis feels a cold drip in his spine.

“I honestly don’t know, mate.” He pauses. “Why? Have you heard something?”

He shrugs, stroking the keys with his fingers. “Father called me a bit ago to say I didn’t have to come in to the studio tonight. Said recording’s on hold until they can get ahold of Des. Didn’t say anything about him missing, but. Could explain it.”

And Louis’ stomach grows cold as well.

They remain that way, Louis standing in the kitchen, leaned up against the counter for support as he stares blankly at the floor, and Niall petting his piano like a kitten.

Louis’ thoughts are barreling down a dark tunnel, his attempts at keeping the darker thoughts at bay failing, and the awful thought of ‘Why did Harry look so perfectly terrified while searching for that nameless something? Especially if that nameless something was his father?’ is beginning to form, when Niall suddenly peers up at Louis, curious in an uncomplicated way.

“I thought you hated each other.”

Louis blinks. “Well. Yes.” He sighs and flicks his hair again, more nervously than out of necessity. “And no. I think something’s wrong with him.”

“You think?”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “No, but I mean it. Something is seriously wrong.”

Without an ounce of worry, Niall dives back into playing whatever song it was that he’d been attempting to master. “Well, what can you expect? He’s had a very unconventional upbringing.”

“Big words.”

Niall shrugs. “’S true, though.”

The sentence presses into Louis’ mind. Unconventional upbringing.

Howso? Yes, the 'rock star' father who is apparently batshit crazy and goes missing. (It runs in the family?) Yes, the drug addict, supermodel sister. Yes, the slew of ‘mums’ and the one who passed away due to unknown causes, probably to drugs.

Unconventional upbringing.

Harry Styles’ been constructed out of madness, he has. And fuck. How can…

But no.

No.

Louis is _not_ going to be mentally ensnared by Harry today for any longer than is necessary. He’s already spent the day with him, followed him around, been left behind, stared at scary flowers and been on the receiving end of the most fluctuant-ly intense stares of his life. And he’s made an odd sort of peace with him as well, so that should really be enough for the moment.

“Whatever,” Louis says with finality, shaking the thoughts out of his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyways. We best get ready or we’re going to be late. And you know how Liam is about that sort of thing.”

And with that, he stalks to his room and straight to his closet, dedicating his full concentration on what to wear for the night ahead.

**

The party is much like the rest.

Niall crowd surfs over a sea of glittering people, his laughter booming over the blasting music as it pours from the speakers, sunglasses taking up half his face. Not too far behind him is Liam, also crowd surfing, his smile gleeful and excited as hands pass him to and fro. Louis notes with fondness that Zayn is always close by, hands protective beneath or around him, making sure he doesn’t fall or get groped unnecessarily. It’s adorable, really, and Louis smiles as they glide past, Zayn sliding a wink Louis’ way.

There’s decent music and good drugs and beautiful people, and Louis gets caught in a long-winded conversation with a fit young boy with too many teeth who keeps staring at his crotch like it’s painted with gold (which Louis can’t really blame the poor thing for, because fuck yeah, these trousers were made to serve his body and that’s that) and, briefly, Louis wonders, through his haze of weed, alcohol, and who knows what else, if it would be worth it to drag this nameless pretty face to the corner and maybe have him fuck or suck him senseless, or at the very least oblige a friendly hand down the trousers. But he doesn’t feel it, just can’t force it, and he finds himself bored and studying his wine glass for amusement before finally being saved by Niall, who demands to show him a bloke who “looks like the splitting fucking image of that cunt Shakespeare”. And he sort of does; it’s odd.

Unfortunately, Louis also thinks about Harry throughout the night.

Of course.

Because how could he not? After the mess of the day, after being prisoner in Harry’s mansion-house-castle and forced to endure that creepy flower in the garden and getting lost in the dark shadows in the rooms and suffering in the quiet moments and hearing Harry’s very softly murmured, “You’re welcome, Louis,” how could he fucking _not_ think about him?

He just wonders where he’s at, what he’s doing, and why, why, why. He wonders WHY about so many things in regards to Harry.

By the end of the night, with a thick mouth that tastes of rubbing alcohol and a sour stomach that has begun to twist rebelliously (who ever said shots were fun?), Louis latches himself onto Niall so as not to be left behind, not in this state of mind, and eventually they make their way home despite Liam’s protests. Because, naturally, Liam is insisting, through dilated eyes and excited gestures, that they move on to another party that his old primary school friend’s holding that’s sure to be a “kicking” good time.

They decline though, arrive in their flat instead, and, dropping into bed, Louis vaguely praises the fact that he’s too inebriated to lie in bed awake, mulling over the thoughts of the day.

**

“Mozart this morning?” Louis yawns, trudging past Niall who is effortlessly thundering the piano once again.

“You’re getting better at identifying the songs!”

“If that’s not a sure sign that I need to move, then I don’t know what is,” he grumbles, setting up the kettle.

“Candle House today,” Niall reminds, and Louis picks it up immediately.

“Ah, yes. The famous Malik…’spring’ home, was it?”

Niall nods amidst a particularly complicated piano riff.

He sighs, shaking his head as he plops a teabag into his cup. “I think I’ve had it with your lot, Ireland . With your spring houses and your summer houses and your rich dads and your clean manners and fake smiles and—“ he cuts himself off, his thoughts dangerously close to verging on a certain someone. And, it being only half past nine, he can’t really afford to begin his day that way. “Well, anyway. What time are they coming to pick us up?”

“An hour or so.”

“So that means about three hours?”

“Yup.”

“Excellent,” Louis says, and drifts towards the shower.

**

It’s nearly midday when the boys finally make it to the flat, dressed in autumn tweeds, scarves, fedoras, and smelling of cigars and eau de toilette in celebration of the autumnal weather.

They arrive as one, Harry leading the way in his gray and mocha plaid blazer, cream knit sweater, and matching gray bow tie, carrying what appears to be an umbrella… With a dog head for a handle. Which would annoy Louis far more if he wasn’t currently caught on an emotional fishing line, trying his best _not_ to stare intently at Harry’s eyes (are they duller than yesterday? Is there life in them today? Are they unchanged at all?) and instead focus on the atrocity in Harry’s hands.

“This is Berkley,” he purrs fondly, faux-smile bedazzling the room as he holds up the dog carving reverently.

And, fishing line or no, Louis stares at the thing with blatant revulsion.

“That has got to be the ugliest thing I have ever seen,” he states flatly on instinct, causing Harry’s eyes to immediately flash to him. He scolds himself instantly though because he’s trying with Harry, he really is--and, judging from Harry’s acknowledgement of him, he thinks he might be trying, too--so he adds a hasty, “But it’s very quirky,” and offers an attempt at a smile.

Harry still scowls, but it’s not cold or cutting like it usually is. It’s, as odd as it sounds, an amiable scowl, but Harry still shields the umbrella from Louis, and averts his eyes elsewhere as he makes to greet Niall.

So perhaps there really is progress. And perhaps whatever mess Harry was in yesterday has been resolved. Because his smiles aren’t _as_ fake as usual, and he seems very up and pleased with that umbrella. So that’s something.

“So sorry we’re late, mates,” Liam says, but it doesn’t sound very apologetic, just scripted, as he clutches Zayn’s arm with one hand and smooths out his hair with the other. “Our meeting ran a bit longer than usual today.” And there’s no mistaking the glee that rides just below the surface of his words.

Zayn is quick to roll his eyes, meeting Louis with a half-lidded, exasperated stare as he shakes his head. “By his own doing.”

“Hey, now,” Liam responds, whirring to pout at Zayn, thick eyebrows meeting as one, “You said I could do whatever I wanted. Not my fault there was a lot on the agenda.”

Zayn just shakes his head, but there’s a light twist of his lips and he presses back a smile.

“So, are you going to tell us what you’re talking about, or…?” Louis states, leaning on the counter and glancing between the two with very unimpressed eyebrows.

“Student Union?” Niall offers from the other side of the room where he’s adjusting his cream jumper and unpinning the tags as Harry watches him calmly, dog-shaped umbrella handle beside him at eye level. For fuck’s sake.

Zayn nods, and Louis bites back a snort.

Zayn’s the president of the Student Union. Naturally. And about once a week, he “holds” meetings where he sits in a large chair as he watches other, lesser, beings make articulated speeches and discuss the goings-on of the school in professional tones and spreadsheets, planning affairs and making nice with the so-called “elites” of the university. And, of course, Liam is also in it.

Because, you know, god forbid Zayn and Liam ever separate.

“Even though I’m the Vice President, Zayn let me hold the meeting and do all the work today,” Liam gushes, and stares at Zayn like he’s made of glittering gold. Liam is also the editor of the student newspaper because he’s a bloody overachiever. Work is fun for him. Or, rather, getting the prestige and holding a position of power is fun for him.

“Isn’t that how it usually is, though?” Harry asks mildly, now staring into the glassy eyes of Berkley.

Liam beams, completely unfazed. “Yes, but today I was able to call order and dismiss everyone.” Liam positively gloats, rubbing a hand along Zayn’s back as he stares at him with adoration. “Next week he said that I can send out the e-mails.”

“Oh, well that’s…cute,” Louis mutters with a disgusted roll of the eyes, and from the corner, Harry’s laugh threatens to emerge before he stuffs it back inside and sends an indifferent sniff Louis’ way.

Louis notices. Which makes his own lips quirk upward.

“I’m ready,” Niall suddenly announces randomly—clearly uninvested in the conversation—as he seems to be unaware that it’s still happening, plowing between the boys, eyes set on the door.

“You should bring a change of clothes. We’re playing croquet,” Harry says as he begins poking at a pile of Louis’ school books on the table.

“Why would you need a change of clothes for croquet?” Louis scoffs, and Liam turns to him with a quizzical brow.

“Why wouldn’t you?” he counters, and it’s genuine and light, while Zayn grins at Louis’ expression.

Louis tries his best to control his judgment. “Right. Well, I think I’ll just wear this, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry breezes, now in the kitchen, shamelessly opening cabinets and peering inside of them, examining the contents of the whole flat.

Which, no.

He may be warming up to Harry in some small way, may even be indebted to him, but Louis will absolutely not stand for a boy who thinks he owns the world and doesn’t respect others’ boundaries. So with a glare and a firm step, he marches to the other side of the cabinet door and snaps it shut in Harry’s face, leveling him with narrowed eyes.  

“Don’t snoop, it’s rude. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?” he scolds.

And just like that, Harry’s eyes darken.

There’s a pregnant pause in the room, heavier than it should be, and Louis momentarily wonders what he’s done (he was in the right, after all, the fucker was just opening cabinets at will), as the boys stare betwixt the two, Niall chewing on his fingernail, Zayn peering with lidded eyes, stone still, and Liam in a similar fixture, absentmindedly picking at his fingers, almost nervously.

But Louis continues to stare at Harry, who’s building walls before his very eyes, his perfect brows arching in distaste, his rosebud lips twisting.

“She couldn’t,” he says shortly, and he takes a step back, immediately cold and guarded.

Eh?

Louis’ about to press the subject because his curiosity and intrigue are screaming, but before he can open his mouth, Zayn is sliding his fedora on and saying, “Come on, boys. Let’s go. Can’t keep that parking spot forever.” Which, yeah, he’s Zayn Malik, yes he fucking could, but whatever.

So Louis lets it drop.

Still though, his mind prickles with curiosity as they march forward, and he follows in the back, curiously watching the bob of Harry’s curls as they make their way towards the car.

**

They ride in the cool autumn breeze, and Louis really thinks it’s about time they retire the exposed-to-the-elements antique car, as charming as it is, because he’s fucking freezing, and he’s too busy trying to keep his hair in place anyway.

Niall notices his distress, pulls him on his lap and musses up his hair viciously while laughing, and Louis is teetering between biting the shit out of him and koala-ing him to soak up his vast amount of body heat. He decides on the later, and Liam snaps a pic of the two with a squinty smile from the passenger seat as Zayn tries to reach back, whilst driving, and tickle Louis, his pearly teeth glinting in the review mirror.

It’s sweet and cozy and filled with laughter and profanities and wind, and Louis distinctly feels the sensation of being loved.

But not once do Harry’s eyes look at him, even amidst his own chuckles and grizzled shouts, instead sending winks to Zayn and sensual shoulder rubs to Liam and handshakes to Niall. With Louis, his eyes glide past, almost as if they barely register his presence, and while it isn’t filled with the malice Louis knows Harry is capable of, he feels forgotten and overlooked, and it doesn’t sit well in his stomach. Not when Louis had begun to feel hope toward their friendship.

But there’s nothing he can do, so he ignores it, burrowing further into Niall and laughing into his neck, enjoying all the warmth he can get.

**

“It’s the cutest little cottage,” Liam explains as they amble along down a small road near a lake, the car bumping along over pebbles and stones. “You’re going to love it.”

“Am I?” Louis questions, squinting his eyes in the sun and taking in the expanses of trees and wild-flower addled fields.

“I’ve seen it once or twice,” Niall comments, staring out. “It’s nice.”

“More than nice,” Zayn criticizes as he turns onto a gated pathway. “Better than all of yours.”

Liam beams, placing a hand on Zayn’s knee. “Of course it is, love.”

And Zayn catches Louis’ eye in the mirror and winks.

“Well, we’ll have to see. I don’t like when people tell me that I’m going to love something. I make my own decisions. In fact,” Louis adds, sliding his arm around Niall’s shoulders, “I will purposely not love it now.”

“You’ll hate it on principle?” Niall asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Exactly, Ireland. I’ll hate it on principle.”

Liam apparently finds this hilarious, and begins laughing near-hysterically, clapping his hands. “Hate it on principle!” he repeats through his giggles.

“I’ll hate it with you,” Zayn says, meeting Louis’ eye in the mirror.

“But it’s your house,” Harry protests, and Louis is surprised, having thought he wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation at all. And also finding him to be a hypocrite because he didn’t seem too fond of his own residence just yesterday...

“That’s why I can hate it,” is all Zayn says, but his voice is joking and light and it rolls off the shrug of his shoulders, so it makes Louis smile more and nod his assent.

“You’ve got my back, Malik.”

“I’ve got your back.”

They drive on.

**

Louis sort of does love it.

On the outside, at least. It’s certainly smaller than Harry’s mansion, but ‘cottage’ is the last word on earth that he would use to describe it.

“You’re not allowed to describe things anymore,” he tells Liam, who strolls ahead, flicking out his lighter to set flame to the cigarette perched between Zayn’s lips. “This is not a cottage.”

“We’re home!” Harry says emphatically, smiling so large it looks painful, and he hops out of the car, arms looking ready to embrace the building as he close his eyes blissfully.

“Did you live here?” Louis asks, surprised, turning to him.

But Harry doesn’t open his eyes nor acknowledge the question at all.

“Come on,” Liam says before Louis can protest, tugging his arm forward. “I want to play croquet.”

“Show us the house first,” Niall orders, and Zayn strides forward, puffing on his cigarette, motioning the others to follow with the mere flick of his finger.

“This way, lads.”

They climb the steps to the stone building, its ivy and morning glories carpeting the walls. The windows are large and plentiful, most of them opened and welcoming the cool breezes. There are balconies and patios and a garage stuffed with shiny vehicles, and surrounding them is a large expanse of green grass, mini gardens, gazebos, and willow trees whose long branches tickle the soil.

It’s not as classically over the top as Harry’s house. This actually feels like a home, albeit a grand one, and Louis already feels more at ease as he passes through the front door, it’s heavy wooden oak cold and smooth against the palm of his hand as Niall presses it open for him. He finds himself standing in the entry way, with its tall ceilings and coat racks, and, thankfully, it’s much, _much_ warmer than Harry’s house on the inside as well. The sun streams through the large windows and warms against the cream colored walls, glinting against glass vases filled with fresh flowers, and the air is filled with the scent of warm bread, herbs, and clean carpet. He notes the widescreen that takes up the whole actual wall in the adjoining room, and shakes his head with a laugh as the others walk on and he lingers, attempting to take it all in.

“Oh, the posh life,” he jokes to himself, sliding his hands in his pockets as he looks about.

“You don’t like it?” a rumbling voice drips, and Louis jumps, having thought he was alone.

It’s Harry. It’s always Harry. Harry, walking up to him and staring with eyes that are almost bright with curiosity. Almost.

“I don’t _not_ like it. I just…don’t care. It’s not like I have an attachment to it like I’m sure you do.” He leaves the unspoken ‘Which I can only assume because when I asked you about it you ignored my fucking question’ in the air.

“But these things don’t affect you?” Harry presses. “All this…stuff,” he finishes, gesturing towards the imported curtains and cherry wood floors.

It’s Louis’ turn to stare curiously at Harry. “Why would it affect me?”

Harry returns the stare and there’s a pregnant pause, before he finally blinks languidly.

“I used to come here when Mira was married to my father. So, yes, I suppose I lived here,” he states, and Louis feels the tiniest tightening in his chest immediately. Because Harry is speaking. He’s revealing things. He’s…well.

Really, it shouldn’t be a big deal, that little sentence. For anyone else, that would be useless information, forked over easily. But for Harry…

Louis waits for more, breath suspended somewhere near the miniature chandeliers and between the tapestries.

“I liked it,” Harry continues simply. “Still do.” He rips his gaze away from Louis before taking in the space before him, and Louis studies him, trying to gauge his mood, his vibe, his everything.

Because yesterday Harry seemed weary and on edge and terrified. But today? He seems light, simple, and maybe a little charming. Sure, that undead indifference still sits in the jade of his eyes and his smile is more for show than anything, but he’s better than yesterday, and Louis doesn’t understand it, not even a little bit.

But he takes it as a good sign. That maybe he’s better, their potential friendship is better, that everything is better.

And now he’s staring back at Louis expectantly.

“We should join the others. After you,” he says, graciously gesturing for Louis to move forward.

Louis smiles in response, nodding a thanks, and walks ahead.

The day may just turn out to be a good one indeed.

**

They’ve been playing croquet for a very long time.

A _very_ long time.

It was fun at first as they all joked beneath the bright sun, swinging their mallets (mostly at each other) and being offered a slew of beverages from Zayn’s kind and obliging staff. Louis literally almost shit his pants when he discovered there were actual maids and footmen who resided there. They’ve become family friends essentially, Liam explained, but it was still alarming as fuck, and Louis often took to sneaking his own drinks and snacks. Being served was entirely uncomfortable. It’s bad enough when Rory offers to do him favors.

But the overall vibe was good, and, miraculously, Harry’s good mood stayed intact. He made clever jokes and laughed at the appropriate times and bantered with Zayn about their times together here—some jokes flying over all their heads, including Liam’s who stared between the two with polite curiosity—and they relayed story after story of the shenanigans they pulled.

“We got away with too much,” Zayn had said while staring fondly at Harry, who shook his head.

“Never got away with enough,” he countered, and winked in Zayn’s direction before picking up his mallet.

There was something there, a feeling laced within the words, but as Louis watched the pair and their secretive eyes and glances broken by Harry—who was more interested in the game than anything else—he found himself clueless, the intangible history of the group far beyond his grasp. So they played on.

And now it’s been a good two hours, the clouds are pouring in, and everyone is incredibly bored.

Except Harry.

“I’m over this,” Niall says, sunglasses donned, one hand propping him up with the mallet, the other on his hip. His face is vastly unamused.

“To be quite honest, I am as well,” Liam says, and everybody turns to Harry.

He’s got the mallet in his hands, feet splayed in a sturdy stance. He sways the mallet gently on occasion, testing its weight, lips pressed between his teeth in concentration as he stares intently at the ball. It’s all very intense. And very unnecessary.

“Just give it up, will you, Curly? It’s going to rain,” Louis says, glancing at the foreboding clouds and occasional flickers of lightning.

“Says you,” Harry mumbles, still sizing up the ball.

“It’s not even fun anymore,” Niall complains, throwing his head back with misery, but Harry makes no movement.

“You’re being spoiled. And immature. And a prat,” Louis accuses, glaring at Harry. “Majority says not to play anymore, so you ignoring the majority makes you an arse.”

Harry glances up to him, cross. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he says dryly before returning his concentration. “I’ve almost won. Just let me finish.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Louis sighs, throwing up his hands. “What does it matter if you win?”

“I never win.”

“That’s true, though,” Liam says fairly.

“Yeah, because you always win,” Zayn teases, and Liam beams. “Unless Niall plays. Then Niall always wins,” Zayn adds, and  Liam deflates.

“Irish luck,” Niall shrugs.

“Well, then use some of that luck and get this boy going, yeah?” Louis says with exasperation, staring up at the clouds with increasing worry. Juicy drops slowly begin falling. “Fuck. It’s totally raining.”

“It is not.”

“Ah, but you see, it really is. Here’s proof.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s a moist spot on me jumper. From a raindrop.”

“That proves nothing.”

“I think you’ll find that it does actually.” But before Louis can prove his point further, lightning bolts across the sky.

It’s just as he’s about to announce his departure (he’s not fucking around with lightning) that the crack of thunder coincides with the crack of Harry’s mallet against the ball, sending it through the last hoop.

And that’s when the downpour begins.

Instantly, chaos ensues as Zayn shouts, “RACE TO THE HOUSE!” and takes off with Liam at his side, the atmosphere filling with the deafening rush of rain as it pours relentlessly down on them.

Louis is quick to react though, dropping his own mallet and sprinting across the wet grass toward the house which seems farther away than it did before, laughing as he feels his clothes become heavy beneath the pelting streaks of rain. He’s running as fast as he can, his feet flying like Hermes himself, and is quickly gaining on Zayn and Liam who are laughing, throwing glances back at the rest of the boys to gauge space and speed.

Then suddenly he feels a solid weight collide with his body, sending him to the ground.

“Ooof!” he emits, feeling the wind knock out of him as a golden head scrambles over him, making to stand.

“Gotcha Tommo!” Niall laughs, attempting to run away, but Louis’ faster, grabbing at his heels and sending the boy back to the ground.

“No you don’t!” he laughs, and they wrestle, the rain drenching their limbs and stinging their eyesight.

After a few tussles, Niall finally weasels out of Louis’ grasp and, laughing, sprints towards the house without a second glance.

“You bastard!” Louis shouts, but he’s grinning despite himself as he scrambles up and attempts to follow his tracks. But it’s pouring and hazy, the steam from the ground coming off like fog, and with Niall’s wily speed, he’s soon out of sight, leaving Louis to wonder how the fuck he can get inside, as there seems to be no visible door.

He trots to the nearest porch--which luckily has a door, albeit a camouflaged one--with his chuckles still reverberating through his chest. He slides through the opened door, slouching through the room and entering the house, leaving puddles in his wake as he feels his heart still pounding in his chest, his bloodstream alight with adrenaline and laughter. He can hear the laughter of the other boys ahead and he follows the sound, squishing past large windows.

Then suddenly something catches his eye.

He stops, turning toward the large window nearest to him, and stares, squinting through the torrential chaos of water and lightening. Amongst the ribbons of rain he sees a grayish blur.

Harry.

He’s standing in the middle of the yard, arms outstretched, champagne glass in hand, head bent back to face the heavens as rain pelts him relentlessly. His body is splayed, almost begging to be struck by the licks of lightning, but his face is calm, emotionless, unmoving.

Louis stares, catching his breath, his adrenaline ebbing out of his body as he takes in the scene before him, the laughter of the other boys now distant in his ear.

Because, fuck. Wasn’t Harry supposed to be better? Wasn’t he in a good mood today?

But damn. Louis realizes, with a sick twinge of his stomach, the question is more like: Wasn’t Harry a good little actor today?

Fuck.

It shouldn’t mean anything, Harry standing in the storm, shouldn’t imply anything at all other than he likes a good downpour. But Louis knows. He just knows.

He knows that this is yet another one of those _moments_ , those _things_ , that instantly alerts Louis to the shambles that Harry is made up of.  He knows this is another sign, another thing wrong, and that of fucking COURSE Harry wasn’t just suddenly better after yesterday. He'd just been putting up a front for the boys, a false bravado.

And now here he is, thinking he’s alone, quiet and splayed and mentally bruised, letting his body wash away.

Louis feels a thousand internal pangs as Harry continues to stand and he wants nothing more than to move, to retrieve the idiot and drag him inside where it’s warm and safe, but all he can do is stare as he listens to his own breath return to normal.

He swears that he can almost hear the gentle pings of the raindrops hitting the champagne glass clutched in Harry’s left hand.

**

Harry still hasn’t come inside.

And not a word has been said about it.

They’re gathered in the living room and kitchen, swaddled in bathrobes while their clothes dry (and Louis is really trying to ignore the fact that each bathrobe is monogrammed with “Z.M.” because, _really_ ), stuffing their faces with incredible food and wine, but Harry still isn’t there and _not once_ has anybody questioned it.

Liam had introduced Louis and Niall to the remaining staff as soon as they’d gathered after their rain race--which, by the way, nobody won, due to Liam claiming it was Zayn and Zayn claiming it was Liam--and they had all milled about and shared a laugh. Louis found himself to be particularly fond of Stephen—Zayn’s personal chef—who is currently laughing joyously at Niall’s reactions as he samples each and every dish he procures, taking the time to explain the ingredients in detail, much to Zayn’s amusement who watches from the table where he’s playing a solitary game of cards, cigarette dangling between his lips.

Louis watches the group with a smile, throwing out an exuberant comment every once in awhile where he sees fit, and while the boys chortle around him—especially Liam who _always_ seems to look anticipatorily toward Louis when something funny occurs or is said—Louis’ mind veers in almost every other direction. And as he helps himself to another cup of punch, politely declining Darla’s offer to assist, he begins to feel a strange sort of inner panic as he dumps peach tinted liquid into his sparkling glass teacup.

His smile remains fixed, and occasionally he’ll meet the eyes of Zayn or Liam, or roll his eyes in Niall’s general direction…but the rain pelts against the windows steadily, a bit calmer now, and more often than not he finds himself glancing out into the empty expanses of yard.

He can’t see Harry, doesn’t even come close to it, but with each tinkle of rain against cool glass, with each careless laugh shared between the boys, Louis’ chest tugs with anxiety. Because they’re all sitting here, having the time of their lives, while one of their party is missing, actually blatantly missing, and nobody bats an eye. Not even Zayn, who seems a bit more attuned to Harry than the others.

With a tight grip, Louis brings the punch to his mouth, swallowing the tart liquid in gulps, his eyes glued to the windows.

Does nobody honestly care? Does nobody realize? What the fuck?

Then again.

Is he any better? He, who just turned and walked away from the spectacle of Harry crucified under a crying sky, numb and emotionless as he embraced emptiness? He saw Harry, saw him and left without a word. And, sure, everybody here is just mindlessly enjoying themselves, and yeah, Liam’s now texting Edward and the lads to come out and join them, and they’re all innocently oblivious, but fuck—don’t they fucking realize that one of their best mates is out there drowning?

Because that’s what it is. Harry is drowning. Probably has been for years. And they don’t even fucking see it, but Louis—who has known him for a total of sixty days, give or take—saw it automatically, and fuck.

Just fuck.

Then again. He could just be looking too deeply into it all. Because, yeah, he doesn’t know Harry like these guys. He hasn’t lived with his mood swings and his obsessions and his insincerity and emptiness and unpredictability. Maybe they know him well enough to know that this is just what Harry does.

Because when does it get to be too much? Where is the line that separates healthy concern from invasive fuckery? And how does he even know if something’s off with Harry? Just because of his eyes? A few choppy expressions? A broken word or two? Standing in the rain? What does that even mean?

The rain pelts harder and Niall’s laugh is even louder.

And, what’s more, if Harry is indeed ‘damaged’ or whatnot, how is Louis to know if he’s even able to be ‘saved’? What if it’s too late? What if what’s been broken just can’t be fixed, and in concerning himself for this hot mess of a boy, Louis just embarks on a dead-end journey of useless stress and concern?

Or what if nothing’s wrong and he’s just a little spoiled fucker? Buried in hedonism and excess and demands and distractions to fill the boredom?

Liam’s glancing at his pocket watch, announcing the time, and Zayn suggests they spray paint the walls. Niall’s stuffing spinach croissants in his mouth, the flakes sticking to his chin and embedding in the band of his Rolex, and the rain pelts endlessly, and Harry’s missing, and Louis takes another sip of punch as the tightness in his chest only grows, feeling a little bit really fucking helpless.

Because what exactly is he supposed to be doing right now? Searching the grounds for an emotional Harry? Dragging him across the lawn, demanding he come inside? He can’t do any of those things. He can only do nothing.

But, fuck, no he can’t.

He can’t just watch someone drowning. Not when he’s standing in front of them. Not when Niall’s too busy laughing and Liam’s too busy texting and Zayn’s too busy stroking his fingers along the back of Liam’s neck.

Nobody’s reacting, nobody cares, nobody sees it or hears the tidal rushes of water or the rain or the absence of Harry and his fucking umbrella-dog-handle thing he named Berkley, but Louis does, Louis fucking sees and hears and feels and _fuck_ —

“I’m going to the loo,” he suddenly announces to the room, too loudly and too disjointed, as he bolts upward out of his chair.

The room momentarily softens in volume for a second as the lads glance up at him, Stephen entering the room to place tiny quiches on a silver tray, accompanied by a few sweet-faced women in tight buns who gather the mess.

“It’s just over there,” Zayn points, eyes studying Louis who nods in acknowledgement, before turning away. He feels Zayn’s eyes on his back as he marches in the direction of his finger, before turning a sharp corner just as he’s out of sight.

Mind flicking and sparking, Louis retraces his steps from before, until he’s met with the porch he’d entered the house in after the rain.

He’s going to search for Harry. He’s going to scour the lawns, drag his dramatic, broken bum into the house, and he’s going to keep an eye on him. A close eye. Because Harry is a better actor than he thought, and he can’t watch someone drown.

It’s at that moment that he notices the movement, as he takes a step inside the porch.

On the far end, near the doors connecting to the outside, there stands Harry, pushing back his sopping hair off of his face, wearing only a thin white t-shirt that clings damply to his smooth, pallid torso, his tattoos visible beneath, and a soaking pair of trousers. The rest of his clothes are bunched on the ground or lain on the furniture to dry. The champagne glass sits on a table nearby, filled with more rainwater than actual champagne. Louis walks to it immediately, feeling the awkwardness of the situation charge his limbs (because, uh, what was he planning on doing exactly?) as he picks it up, examining its foggy surface and dripping stem.

“There you are,” he says, only a little bit of his frustration breaking to the surface as he brings the glass to his eyes, determining his focus onto it, and steadily avoiding the wet mess that is Harry Styles behind him.

He feels Harry’s eyes on him, and a quick glance backwards proves him right. The boy’s eyebrows are knitted together as is custom (he’ll develop a unibrow soon, he will) and he doesn’t say a word, his thick lips pressed together, his fingertips dripping as the remnants of the rain cascade down his arms.

Somewhere in the back of Louis’ mind he registers that, were this a mere two days ago, this is when he would have given up. He would have registered Harry’s silence, allowed the annoyance to overtake him, and stalked off with a thrown back comment. And that would have been it.

But now…

Louis lowers the glass and keeps it in his warm grasp as he turns to stare at Harry, taking in the boy's wet, disheveled appearance, his hallow, pale skin, offensive red mouth, and washed away eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks firmly, eyes holding no amusement.

Harry continues to stare, void of emotion beneath his knitted brow.

“What were you doing out there?” Louis tries again, but his voice is heavy under the weight of anxiety, and he can’t help it—he’s fucking tense and uncomfortable and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s _trying_ goddamnit.

Harry’s face flickers at that, apparently lost for words. Louis feels the budding of hope in his chest, begins to see a bit of a life line, but then Harry’s composure has returned, and the emptiness is back in place.

“We’re going to be late for tea,” is all Harry says, as if Louis hadn’t even spoken, and he makes to leave.

But Louis catches his arm, turning him around, his heart thudding in his ears.

“Curly,” he says quietly, mouth twisting into an attempt at a smile as Harry’s eyes narrow at the nickname. “Are you all right?” He places special emphasis on the sentence, staring into Harry’s quiet, unlit gaze as fingers press into the cool, damp flesh of Harry’s arm.

Unblinkingly, Harry’s mouth opens after a brief pause.

Louis waits, his shoulders tensing, his discomfort at a maximum level.

And then Harry closes his mouth.

And then the creases of his face smooth into a plastic perfection.

And then he smiles with too many teeth.

“Tea time, Louis Tomlinson,” he says, and it’s hollow, leaving the air as quickly as it came.

Much like Harry himself, who is now striding ahead, long legs carrying him away.

And now Louis feels hollow as well. So he just stares as Harry vanishes around a corner.

**

It’s not long after that that Edward and the other lads arrive. As well as Harry’s guests. Who hang off of him like wet cloth while Louis glares at the spectacle over every sip of his wine.

They stay at the house for the remainder of the day and the pleasant afternoon turns to a bit of a shit show as everybody absorbs alcohol and laughter, the house filling up with increasingly unfamiliar faces, pricey perfumes mixing and blending in a way that leaves Louis a bit lightheaded.

He gets drunker than he should, at one point slinging an arm around Zayn and demanding to meet his mother in slurred tones because, damn it, she’s only been his favorite actress since he was nine and too many tears have been shed. Zayn had nodded politely as he listened, amusing himself more with restyling Louis’ hair than with the actual words coming from his mouth.

Louis also, as is the pattern in this new life of his, tries to avoid Harry. And by doing so, ends up watching him obsessively.

Because maybe the boys can focus their attentions on spray painting dirty drawings on the pavement outside and drown themselves in body shots and coke, but Louis still feels anxious and guilty and uneasy. Because his day went from him believing that him and Harry just might have a shot at being friends and that Harry was all right, to discovering that Harry was anything but all right and no more opened up to Louis than he was when they first met.

And that’s just disconcerting, really. Especially when the boy himself has three different people licking and sucking the salt off of his collarbones while he stares at the ceiling with vapid patience, his hands limp where they lie on either side of the back of the couch.

Harry, with girls and boys alike crawling over his lap, yanking his face to theirs.

And Louis, clutching a teacup filled with gin, shifting passerby out of his way roughly in order to keep his line of sight unobstructed.

And fuck, that’s weird, but it’s nearing night now and at least he’s not snorting lines of speed off of the kitchen floor like Niall and Liam—who are also covered in spray paint, having decided that was a good idea.

And it’s not even seven P.M.

Louis inwardly groans at the state of his life before ripping his eyes away from Harry and the whores and trudging to the farthest corner of the house, knicking a cigarette from Zayn on the way.

**

By nine o’clock, the boys decide to move the party to the club, and Zayn is just beginning to call forth his chauffeurs on his iPhone, when Harry announces he has other plans.

“It’s been a pleasure, darlings,” he announces blearily, each syllable interrupted by a breathy giggle as he stumbles around his gaggle of adoring fans. “The car’s just pulled up. Text me if you’ve found gold.” With a lopsided grin that looks worlds away from his foggy eyes, he begins stumbling forward, pressing a kiss to Niall’s shoulder as he passes.

And Louis watches from his perch on the sofa armrest, mid convo with a pair of Swedish twins. “If you’ll just excuse me a moment,” he says hurriedly as the one on the left blathers on about their father striking oil, and, with tunnel vision—thank you, vodka—Louis chases down Harry.

Because no. Fuck no. He may be drunk. This day may have been random and weird and complicated. They may not have talked. But Louis is not going to just let Harry leave without acknowledging him. Not after yesterday. Not after Louis smiled at him. And looked for him because he was worried. And stared at his window the night he returned after he’d went missing. Not after he put his drunken ass to bed all those weeks ago and brushed the frizz out of his eyes and wiped the crust off of his mouth.

No.

So Louis drunkenly surges forward, grabbing Harry by the arm. And he hasn’t thought this out.

“You’re going to tutor me on Monday, then?” he asks drunkenly. And what? No—fuck, that is not what Louis wanted to say at all.

But Harry blinks blearily, smiling through the fog. “’Course, Louis Tomlinson. I’ll make you proper smart. Just you wait, laddy lad.” And he makes to go, but it’s not enough.

Louis catches his arm again.

“Are you all right?” he asks bluntly, taking a step closer, and by this point, Harry’s harem begins to thin out, walking ahead with hyena laughter as they pile out the door and to the awaiting car.

Harry’s good humor falters. “Why the fuck are you always asking me that?” he growls, pulling his arm away, but Louis steps even closer, staring as intently as he can into those eyes before him despite the swells of intoxication that are swiftly engulfing every sense of reasoning he has.

“Yesterday,” is all Louis can manage, and Harry’s scowl fades the tiniest bit as he searches Louis’ face with something akin to confusion. Or is it bafflement? Whatever it is, it has Louis stepping even closer, their toes now touching. “Did you find him?” he asks, quieter now, but just as slurred, and he doesn’t know where the question came from or what it really means or if it’s too personal for Harry to answer, but he doesn’t blink as he registers the changes of emotions in Harry’s face, just continues to stare.

Louis expects him to just walk away as he always does, just turn around and stalk off after the parade and into that car, but Harry doesn’t move, the corners of his eyes pinching and his mouth twisting uncomfortably. A loose curl falls into his eyes.

“No,” he all but whispers, keeping Louis’ gaze, and even amidst the blaring music from the in-house speakers and Niall’s laughter, Louis can swear he hears the boy’s breath and nothing else. He stares at the brittle shadow before him, the exhaustion, the helplessness and the fear etched in his irises and creases, and Louis echoes the quietly pained ‘no’ in his mind over and over, and he knows now that, yep, most definitely, Harry is not indeed all right.

“Harry—“ he begins, reaching out for his arm, but then a sea of other arms suddenly engulf the boy, tanned skin clutching at his jumper and his unkempt curls, as they shout their laughter and pull him in their direction.

“C’mon Harold!”

“We’ve not got all night!”

“Styles! Don’t be a bore now!”

And Harry’s eyes, thick and lost and murky, fix on Louis, even as he’s dragged backwards through the house, stumbling over limbs and oriental rugs, never blinking once, until the door closes and Louis is left alone, vaguely wondering if he’s begun to drown as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is Coldplay's "Paradise." It's what I feel. 
> 
> Thank you for reading the story that never ends! I cherish you all, my little darlings. :-*


	16. XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis tries. And Louis fails.

It’s Sunday evening when Louis makes the decision that he is going to do everything in his power to befriend Harry Styles.

He and Niall had spent the day nursing hangovers (Niall also nursing a broken heart—he’d broken his Segway the night before after they’d returned from the clubs, trying to ride it off of ramps and failing abysmally) and Louis’ mind was a constant replay of Harry being dragged away by the sea of harpies while staring at Louis in a silent scream for help.

Or, well, what Louis _took_ as a silent scream for help at least. But scream or no, Louis couldn’t forget.

And so it’s at dinner, in a quaint little pub on the edge of town, around seven P.M., that Louis firmly decides his course of action.

He had practically had to force Niall out of the house to come. “You never take me out anymore,” he whined, jabbing fingers in Niall’s cheeks, armpits, stomach, general face, while Niall was playing on some audio program on his laptop. He responded with one of his distracted grunts, which only ever makes Louis more agitated, so he began screeching his name until the boy gave him attention. “We go out all the time,” he finally responded. “Yeah, but never just the two of us. It’s like you don’t even care anymore.” “You missing me, Tommo?” “No, you shrew. I’m hungry.” “Tomorrow.” “No.” “Later.” “No.” Niall sighed. “Can I at least finish what I’m doing?” “Absolutely not.” Niall groaned, Louis smiled pleasantly, and, finally, after Louis ripped the blankets off of him and darted away with his laptop, Niall finally put on trousers and texted Nelson to pick them up.

But now, throwing back whiskey sours (well, Louis’ throwing back brightly colored cocktails while Niall is throwing back whiskey sours; and beer) they’re having a pleasant time as they pick at a large pile of chips before them, Niall wiping his greasy hands on his sweatpants and football jersey, while they rehash the events of the night before.

“That Liam is a fuckin’ madman,” Niall says with a shake of his head, sun-gold hair framing cornflower eyes. “Did you see him at the end there? When he opened that champagne bottle in the cunt’s face? He nearly took his goddamn eye out!”

And, no, Louis doesn’t remember because he was a bit too pissed to remember anything from the night before really. He swears he doesn’t remember drinking that much. Honestly.

Louis laughs good-naturedly though, shoving a particularly large chip in his mouth as he attempts to sort through the fog of memories. Unfortunately for him, the only thing he seems to be able to find is a set of green, faded eyes.

He swallows his food thickly at the thought, stomach churning.

“Harry left early, eh?” he says casually, glancing up at Niall who’s now finishing his pint in one swift gulp.

He sets down the glass and wipes his mouth with a truly impressive burp. “Yeah. Wonder where he got off to.”

“Dunno.” Louis pokes at the chips for a couple seconds, resting his chin on his hand. “He was sort of dragged away, wasn’t he? By all those hideous people.”

“Was he? Didn’t really notice.”

“Yeah. He was.”

Niall glances up at him. “And?”

“And nothing,” Louis says quickly, crossing his arms on the tabletop.

Pause.

“It’s just that—“ Louis stops himself, reassessing his words as a bemused smile overcomes Niall’s face, his eyebrow quirking expectantly. “I’ve decided I’m going to make an effort to be his friend, Niall. Like properly.” He averts his eyes to the chipped, wooden tabletop and begins delicately picking at a particularly large nick in the surface. “I think the kid needs one.”

“So. You wanna fuck him?” Niall asks bluntly with his bright eyes, causing Louis to roll his own.

“No, twat, it’s not like that. It’s nothing romantic. I just…feel bad for him.”

Niall nods as he listens, motioning to the server to bring another round of whiskeys and beers. “Fair enough.” His eyes settle back on Louis, a grin forming on his lips. “But how the fuck do you manage to go about it, eh? Cuz last I checked, you couldn’t even stomach the bastard’s fuckin’ umbrella.”

“No, but did you _see_ that thing?” Louis bursts, leaning over the table to look Niall in the eye directly. “It was hideous! It was bad enough that he was toting it around like it were some prize. But he _named_ it. He fucking named it.”

Niall shrugs, sitting back in his chair. “I like the name. Berkley. ‘S cute.”

Louis pauses, eying Niall. “It’s not a bad name,” he finally concedes. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

Niall laughs, loud and clear, before crossing his hands over his lap, elbows perched on the armrests of his chair. “You didn’t answer my question. How do you plan on becoming Harry’s best friend?”

Louis throws him a glare. “Funny. Well, I’ve been thinking a bit, and I think what Harry needs is some support in his life, ya know? Like, a helping hand. So, I’m just going to try to be as supportive and accommodating as possible. Starting tomorrow during our tutoring session.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot upward immediately, and Louis grins, popping another chip in his mouth.

“You think that’ll work?” Niall asks, caught between incredulity and unimpressed judgment, eyebrows still raised.

“Well. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

And then their server comes with the next round of drinks, and they clink glasses, laughing for the rest of the evening, drinking away the remnants of their hangovers.

**

Louis has a missed call from his mum. Which is fucking splendid.

Especially because he’s cranky as fuck—having not been able to sleep because, perhaps, he’d been, maybe, outlining a plan of ‘attack’, so to speak, and it may have, potentially, been entitled: ‘How To Become Friends With Harry Styles’. That, on top of having to sit through excruciatingly boring lectures (and he forgot his homework for one of them, so fuck it all) and having to politely but firmly squash the incessant attempts at flirting from a group of Dolce & Gabbana girls, has made Louis a very, very grumpy duck.

And now, as he looks at the little notification on his screen, he’s gotten even grumpier.

Really, he should be thankful. Because after the mess from the other day, she hasn’t made any attempts to contact him--not a text or anything. And she didn’t even leave a voicemail now, has just rung and then hung up, so Louis really should feel relief, but instead he feels dread. Because she’s only rung less than ten minutes ago, and she’ll probably ring again.

Making a noise suspiciously like a growl, Louis shoves his phone in his bag and starts towards his flat, ready to sink into the couch before he embarks on his tutoring with Harry.

**

There aren’t any more missed call from his mum. Just the one. Just _one_. One.

And Louis doesn’t understand it at all, but he credits the unease in his stomach to his overwhelming relief and nothing else—it’s not like he _wants_ her to make more of an effort to speak with him, or maybe see how his day’s been going—and so he doesn’t say a word when he collapses on the sofa next to Niall, who’s stoned as fuck and watching cartoons in his pants and nothing else, snapback haphazardly hanging off the side of his head.

“Rough day?” he asks, offering Louis his bowl.

He declines the offer, instead sighing out a “Fuck yes,” and burying his face in the velvet cushions.

“Rory’s out getting me food. Want anything?”

“Cake?” Louis squeaks hopefully, and Niall flashes him a thumbs up.

“You got it, mate.”

They stay like that for a good twenty minutes, Louis drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Niall watching the TV with drooping eyes, occasionally barking out a stream of cackles.

And then the cake comes, and they stuff their faces, and Louis is just thinking that this is probably the best moment of his life as he licks his fingers clean, when he glances at Niall’s Rolex.

“Oh fuck!” He bolts up, tossing the empty bakery box onto the coffee table, as Niall yawns and looks up at him curiously.

“You all right?”

“I’ve got to meet Harry in twenty minutes!”

Niall blinks. “And?”

“And I need to get ready! Fuck,” Louis breathes, trotting to the bathroom to splash water on his face.

“Why do you need to get ready?” Niall calls lazily from the couch, and Louis rolls his eyes as he towel dries his face.

“Because I have to be fucking prepared, now don’t I?”

“Prepared for what?”

Louis stalks out of the bathroom, hands on hips, voice shrill. “Tutoring! And today is the first day of ‘Operation: Best Mate’ and I don’t even hav—“

“Did you just say ‘Operation: Best Mate’?” Niall asks, peering from the back of the couch at Louis.

There’s a pause.

“It doesn’t matter what I said, Niall. Point is, I need to get going.”

Louis begins stuffing his outlines, books, and folders into his shoulder bag, his nerves beginning to prickle as he refrains from envisioning the potential outcomes of the day. For all he knows, Harry and him could be the best of mates by this evening, thus making his operation successful. There’s no telling, really…

“By the way, your mum says hi.”

Louis freezes then, mid stuffing-foot-in-shoe. “I’m sorry?”

“Your mum says hi,” Niall repeats, scratching at his genitals.

“What do you mean my mum says hi? Is she here?!”

“Nah. I rung her this morning.”

“You talk to my mum on the _phone_?”

“Yeah, so? I talk to all me mates’ parents.”

“Oh, of course you do.” Louis carefully slides his foot into his shoe, thoughts darting to and fro within his skull. He hesitates, just for a moment, before he continues. "What’d she have to say, then?”

“Not much. She’s tired, stressed, having a hard time. But she’ll be fine.”

Louis fiddles with his t-shirt. He doesn’t want to ask it. Not really. It’s not as if he cares, and it certainly isn’t as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

But he asks anyway.

“Did she ask about me?”

Niall’s face instantly morphs into an expression akin to a bear cub caught in a trap, and that’s all Louis needs.

“That’s what I thought,” he clips, gathering the last of his things.

“Well—she said hi,” Niall offers, rubbing the back of his neck and twisting his lips in what Louis assumes is an attempt at a fake smile. For as long as Louis has known Niall, not once has he seen him anywhere near uncomfortable; the boy’s a fearless dragon—nothing intimidates him and he would never apologize for who he is. He’s a 'take me or leave me' kind of guy, and such a confidant, carefree demeanor leaves little room for discomfort or artificiality.

But right now Niall is sure as hell faking a smile and fidgeting under the awkwardness of the situation, and that just makes Louis feel really, really shitty. Because even Niall—oblivious, tactless, asks-Liam-why-he-doesn’t-get-that-creepy-birthmark-removed-from-his-neck Niall Horan—pities Louis and the fact that even he can tell that his mum doesn’t find her only son all that special. She just wants a son, any son will do, and Louis probably wouldn’t be her first choice, with his relentless sass and lack of pity and wardrobe filled with too many shoes he’s only worn once and never again.

She probably wants Niall for a son. Because, really, who wouldn’t? And Louis really doesn’t fucking care because he’s used to this, understands this, and doesn’t need this.

“It’s fine, Niall,” Louis says, and he does his best to keep his voice light, but there’s an odd pressure in the back of his throat that throws his tone off, and Niall’s lips tug into the barest hint of a frown.

He claps a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Look. I don’t know the story between you and your mother. But I can tell you right now that you’re a solid bloke, a good fuckin’ guy, and I’ve got your back, mate.”

It’s a simple thing to say and a simple gesture, but Louis supposes it’s just the way that Niall says things, in his burly Irish lilt that makes the sentence embed in Louis’ bones and warm the cold places. That and his utter sincerity, which just comes so natural to him.

Louis feels himself smile, genuinely. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.” And he returns the clap onto Niall’s shoulder.

And they proceed to have a moment.

“Well,” Niall then barks, breaking the tender silence, “You best get going or you’ll be late for tutoring. You’ve got a friend to make.” And he throws him a wink before pocketing his phone and scratching his nose.

**

Louis’ standing outside of Harry’s door and already rehearsing some of the accommodating things he can say to him in order to make this afternoon a pleasant experience.

He could offer Harry a drink? Offer to go umbrella shopping with him? Offer to talk? Say yes to all his ridiculous ideas because he probably doesn’t get the support he needs at home?

Louis’ mind is whirring, spinning and spitting all at once, and he’s so caught up with his ‘Operation: Best Mate’ that he barely registers the door slowly creaking open in front of him.

And there stands Harry, bow tie-less, but wearing a crisp white button-up and onyx blazer with matching trousers that are almost inappropriately snug.  His hair is tousled and wild, almost like he stuck his head in a geyser, and his face is the very picture of ‘thoroughly fucked’ and ‘why are you here?’.

He looks at Louis expectantly, bored.

“Tutoring…?” Louis prompts, eyebrow quirking, and he’s about to slam down some judgment at the slew of voices that are now pouring from within, but, his promised plans at winning Harry’s favor in the forefront of his mind, he quickly assembles his face into a smile and adds a cheery, “Company today?” which makes his cheeks hurt.

Fuck, this is hard.

Harry’s own eyebrows shoot in the air. “Yeah, you could say that,” he rumbles, lips full and kissed, just watching Louis beneath lidded eyes as he drapes himself along the doorframe.

“How fun,” Louis grits.

They stand there.

“Are you going to let me in, then?” he asks politely, on the verge of displaying impatience. Gotta keep it cool, gotta reign it in. Operation Best Mate.

“Uh. I guess,” Harry says, somewhat suspiciously, taking a step back to allow Louis’ entrance. “Don’t you usually just do whatever you want? Didn’t know you needed my permission.”

Something pings inside of Louis at that, and he looks to Harry as he makes his way inside, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. “Well. That’s just bad manners though, isn’t it?”

Harry’s brow furrows as he stares.

At this point, the slew of voices connect with a slew of bodies as five or so girls and three boys emerge from Harry’s room, clothes rumbled and eyes bright and sunken as they laugh.

Louis gawks. Because that is a lot of fucking people. Pardon the pun.

“Bye Harold!”

“You were lovely, darling.”

“Give us a ring, yeah?”

“I love everything about you, beautiful, never change.”

And countless other meaningless farewells are thrown as each designer clad, perfumed body passes by Louis, one by one, before marching out the door in single file. Like an assembly line. And then the door closes and it’s just them, Louis maintaining his chipper demeanor while Harry stares at a random spot on the wall, motionless and unblinking.

“Well. That was…timed appropriately,” Louis offers through his teeth, and Harry’s eyes flick to him.

“What, you’ve got nothing to say?” he asks, cold. “No comments? No eye rolling? Just going to offhandedly remark on how appropriately timed it is?” His voice is almost challenging as he stares at Louis, full on, his hands now on his hips.

“That’s all I’m gonna say,” Louis promises, but it’s more a promise to himself than Harry, and Harry watches his face. “I have no right to judge you, do I?” he continues, fingers twitching with the effort, and Louis slathers on a smile.

Harry just stares back, gaze hardening.

Louis avoids his gaze, instead observing the room, but he feels every languid blink of Harry’s eyes, every second of his intent stare that is burningly fierce on the edges.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks suddenly, cutting the stiff silence, and his voice is strong but holds no humor.

Shit. So Louis is being too obvious.

He scrambles for an answer, suppressing his natural instincts and searching for something that is both accommodating and subtle.

“Waiting for you to tutor me,” he settles with, and he smiles once more.

Harry glares. “Right. Well. I don’t feel like it right now,” he says quietly, turning his back and beginning to pour himself a drink. His shoulders are heavy and his hands fumble, but his face remains impassive as Louis stares, gripping the strap of his shoulder bag.

He wants to ask why. He wants to ask about Des. He wants to ask a thousand previously unanswered questions in the hopes to get a little bit closer to getting an answer.

But, no, that isn’t what he’s agreed to do today. Today is about Louis catering to Harry. Treating him specially and carefully. Treading on thin ice.

So Louis says instead, “All right. We don’t have to, if you’d prefer.”

Harry pauses before turning to look at him. “What?”

“We don’t have to if you’re not in the mood.” Louis smiles as kindly as he can. “Whatever you want.”

Harry quirks another eyebrow. “Is that so.”

Louis nods, chewing the inside of his lip.

“All right, then. Sit down,” Harry instructs.

And Louis sits down.

“Stand up,” Harry says almost immediately, turning his body to face Louis fully, and a coldness is slowly overcoming his features.

Louis bites back a glare as he slowly stands up.

They stare each other down, disgust and anger dancing within the lines of Harry’s face, the shadows under his eyes darkening as he watches a silent Louis who has absolutely no fucking clue as to what’s going on.

This is backfiring.

This is totally, totally backfiring. Harry is going to probably tell Louis to scrub his toilet or something, and _why the fuck_ did he think this was a good idea?

Louis waits, hands gripping so tightly to his shoulder bag that they’re actually cramping now, but he doesn’t release them for fear he’ll begin scratching Harry’s eyes out or throw a vase.

So he just waits.

Finally, Harry opens his mouth. “I want to study in the gardens today,” he says abruptly, chin lifted in defiance.

“Okay,” Louis agrees almost immediately.

Harry’s face falters infinitesimally, before stalking ahead. “Let’s go then,” he growls, throwing the door open, and marches onward, not even pretending to wait for Louis to catch up.

**

After a good seven minutes of sitting in the grass in the middle of the school gardens claiming he needs to have the right lighting before writing Louis’ outline, Harry decides to call some “mates” over to join them.

Louis smiles through his stress veins, says, “All right. Whatever you want,” and reassures himself that he _must_ be mastering some sort of reverse psychology on Harry with these mind games--that even he can’t quite make sense of at the moment--as Harry texts on his phone.

Louis waits, legs crossed, gripping at grass blades for dear life, having absolutely no idea what to say in the flowery stillness. He resists the temptation of texting Niall to instruct Nelson to run Harry over with his car (isn’t he supposed to be attempting to _befriend_ Harry? Isn’t that what this is all about?) as he watches two beautiful, lipstick-ed girls arrive, kissing Harry and cooing over him instantly.

He watches the tall blonde place Harry’s head in her lap as he lies in the soft fresh grass, watches as she pulls strawberries out of her purse and feeds them to him, one by one, as if he were some Greek God.

He watches Harry’s smirk as his eyes occasionally sweep over Louis, who just sits and can’t think of anything to do with his hands.

He watches as Harry instructs the magenta-haired girl to write whatever he says.

He watches as she pulls out pink, perfumed paper, and scribbles everything Harry dictates in regards to Louis’ outline.

All the while as Harry is fed strawberries, and the juice runs down his pearly chin.

Louis is seething. But he bites his lips.

“Does anybody know a violinist?” Harry suddenly drawls, craning his neck to look up questioningly at the nameless blonde girl. God forbid Harry introduce Louis. “I want music. Text all the violinists you know, darlings. My phone’s dead so I can’t.”

Like clockwork, both girls stop what they’re doing, take out their phones, and begin texting.

“I’m getting rewarded for this kindness, aren’t I?” the blonde asks with a luxurious smile, and Harry swipes his fingers over her lips.

“In the best way, darling, I promise you,” he breathes.

Louis almost throws up.

“Will you get my book, Louis Tomlinson?” Harry suddenly asks, and it’s so random and Louis is so used to being ignored, that he actually jumps in response. “I forgot it in my rooms and I’m currently occupied.” The slices of Harry’s eyes find Louis from his home in the girls’ lap as he waits expectantly for an answer.

“All right,” he agrees immediately, thankful to be rid of the scene, and shoots up off of the grass without a second glance back at that hot mess of people.

He marches across the campus, his mind screeching and shrilling and questioning this ‘brilliant’ fucking idea of catering to Harry, trying to decide what to do from here on out because, no, this is certainly not working.

And then he reaches Harry’s door.

And his temper escalates.

“It’s locked,” he tries not to snap, minutes later, as he approaches Harry and the girls upon his return. They're still in their same positions, now accompanied by two young boys and one girl, all playing violins a few paces back. And it’s pleasant, sure, but it only serves to stir the agitation building within Louis.

“Oh. My apologies,” Harry smiles winningly, handing over a small, ornate key tied to a strip of red velvet. “There you are. Now, off you go.”

And so Louis makes the trip back, opens the door, and searches Harry’s rooms.

There are no textbooks to be found. And he can’t fucking call him because: 1) He doesn’t have Harry’s number. 2) Even if he did, the bastard’s phone is dead.

He might be breathing fire.

“I couldn’t find them,” he says, upon returning _again_ , through the fakest smile in existence, sweat now forming on his brow as he grips Harry’s key in his hand.

“Oh, drat, you know what? I actually don’t own any school books. I don’t know _what_ I was thinking,” Harry says in the most exaggerated of tones, smirk blaringly evident, and his eyes glint with something that Louis can only describe as malice.

“Right. Easy mistake,” Louis huffs, handing back the key and trying not to send his foot flying into Harry’s crotch.

“Well, then. I think we’ll begin the proper tutoring once you’ve returned, now that Marge has completed your outline,” Harry hums, examining the key in his hand lazily as Blonde slides her fingers through his hair and smacks her gum, staring at Louis with bored eyes.

Louis’ stomach drops. “Returned?”

“From fetching me a cheese danish.”

“… A cheese danish,” Louis repeats flatly. Operation Best Mate. Operation Best Mate. Operation Best Mate.

“Correct. A cheese danish. I’m hungry, Louis Tomlinson. Can’t teach on an empty stomach,” he tuts, patting his stomach twice, and Louis almost bites clean through his lip.

“Right-o, pal," he practically screeches, determination and stubbornness flitting through his veins. "A cheese danish. Be back in just a moment!” He's borderline manic in his enthusiasm, taking off for the nearest bakery that him and Niall always go to when they’re drunk or stoned or have had a bad day or wake up before noon.

Louis has no clue what’s happening right now. No fucking clue. And he has less of a clue as to why he’s actively participating in this shit. But at this point it’s almost a matter of principle that Louis doesn’t back down, so he grinds his teeth and he gets Harry fucking Styles his cheese fucking danish as he swears upon every grave that matters to him to never, ever try to accommodate this spoiled wretch of a boy ever again.

When Louis finally returns, warm pastry in hand, Harry lolls his head over to look at him.

“Finally,” he drawls.

Louis can feel his eyes flash.

With one lazy gesture, Harry has Marge retrieve the prize from Louis without even bothering to look him in the eye, before the girl nestles herself at Harry’s side, pulling little bits off and gently lying them in Harry’s awaiting mouth.

Louis stares, feeling disgusted, furious, repulsed, fuming, frustrated, angry—

“You can go now,” Harry’s voice suddenly purrs through a mouthful. “We’re finished.”

“But you said that the proper tutoring—“

“Marge has your outline. Take it from her.”

Louis stares, truly at a loss for words.

“And take this,” Harry instructs, rolling up the pastry bag and chucking it at Louis, where it bounces off his head and onto the grass.

Speechless and dangerously close to committing homicide, Louis yanks the outline out of  Marge’s procured hand, who is barely holding back her laughter, and Louis feels his cheeks flush at the raw rage he feels inside. 

Fuck Operation Best Mate.

“Same time tomorrow,” Harry instructs in his drawl, a sneer taking up half his face, and as Louis walks away, he hears the girls erupt into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

**

“I FUCKING HATE HIM,” Louis screeches as he slams the door closed behind him.

Niall looks up from the piano stool—where he has also managed to drag the drum set—and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Didn’t go so well?”

“I AM LITERALLY GOING TO PEEL HIS SKIN OFF AND MAKE HIM EAT IT,” Louis continues to bellow, kicking off his bag, then shoes--which go flying across the room as Niall tracks their trajectory with wide eyes--and then his clothes. “I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING, NIALL. I TAKE IT ALL BACK. HE’S AN EVIL, STINKING, SELFISH BASTARD THAT HAS NO HEART, NO SENSE OF DECENCY, AND I COULDN’T GIVE LESS OF A FUCK ABOUT HIM.”

And then he slams his bedroom door shut, leaving a gaping mouthed Niall in his wake.

**

The next day, Louis can barely sit through his classes, his mind only on one thing: his tutoring session with Harry. Which already has his skin crawling.

It comes quickly enough, the day streaming by in tense anticipation.

But Louis is prepared this time.

Because, last night, when he was angrily doodling Harry being thrust into an active volcano, he also made a new outline for his plan of attack. This one entitled: ‘No More Mr. Nice Guy’. Because Louis is creative and original. And Louis takes his outlines very seriously.

If Harry is going to treat Louis like he’s a fool that’s worth less than nothing, just for the fun of it, then maybe Harry needs some tough love himself. Being accommodating is clearly not the way to befriend Harry Styles. So maybe a firm hand is.

When Harry opens the door for Louis, his glare is already present. He's donned in a full suit, bow tie and all, in rich eggplant. “Yay,” he drawls wryly.

Louis glares back, doesn’t respond, and shoves his way roughly inside.

“Well, then,” Harry says, shutting the door. “I suppose your attempt at good manners has passed?”

Louis ignores him again, instead making to stand in the middle of the room, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jean jacket. He stares ahead of himself, feeling the residual anger of yesterday at Harry’s voice, little spikes of malice and offense.

Harry seems oblivious though, instead opting to sit in a large, vermilion chair, a teacup perched between his fingers, legs crossed.

“And how are you today, Louis Tomlinson?” he asks casually, smirk disguised as a smile.

Louis’ head snaps toward him. “I’m not here to answer stupid fucking questions. Now, where’s my outline?” he barks, expelling his pent up rage and frustrations, and it feels surprisingly good.

Maybe tough love will be Louis’ new thing.

Harry’s face flickers in surprise, before his composure reassembles, and he’s taking a large sip from his teacup. “Well, obviously I haven’t started it yet since—“

“Then do it. I’m not here for small talk, so stop wasting my fucking time and let’s get this finished so the both of us don’t have to be here any longer than we have to,” Louis snaps, and he sends Harry his most withering glare, fists clenched at his sides.

Because, good, this is good. Louis is taking control, showing Harry he can’t just be a little spoiled bitch about everything, and in turn, Harry will snap back and they’ll fight, and it will result in mutual respect and understanding.

Louis waits, expecting the world to shatter at his words, or at least Harry’s teacup as he hurls it across the room, but what actually happens is…odd.

Really odd.

Harry’s face falls almost imperceptibly, and if Louis hadn’t become a connoisseur of Harry Styles facial expressions, he might not have picked up on it immediately. Because Harry’s face _falls_ , and he stares at Louis. His shoulders slump in submission, and Louis watches him avert his eyes to the floor, downcast and small. Then, slowly—and dejectedly, much to Louis’ unease—Harry stands up, silently walking to his desk, head bent and eyes…wounded.

And fuck.

Fuck.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Louis watches him, feeling very much alarmed and out of sorts, and it’s like an actual kicked puppy is before him as Harry wordlessly sits and takes out a pen—not his quill—and paper, scribbling down an outline at incredible speed, his eyes never leaving the paper, the shadows seeming deeper, and he watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as the boy swallows thickly.

Just like that, the atmosphere of the room has turned to thick, painful sludge.

And Louis can’t tell if his new technique is working in some twisted way, this technique of a firm hand, or if it’s backfiring or what, but Harry’s at least listening now, and Louis takes that as a somewhatly positive sign?

So, swallowing the bile threatening to rise from his throat and the panging ache in his chest, Louis presses further.

“I hate your handwriting,” he criticizes, trying to keep his voice level and firm, standing over Harry’s shoulder and watching his work. “I can barely read it. Do you _have_ to write it like that? Like you’re begging to be noticed?”

Harry’s hand immediately stills.

Fuck.

Louis grips the insides of his pockets to calm his own discomfort, feeling like an utter piece of shit. He walks away then, unable to look at Harry any longer because he cannot fucking keep doing this, can’t watch Harry’s reaction; because no matter how horrible he was yesterday, or how much this could, in the long run, potentially help, Louis can feel himself fracturing, unable to be this purposefully cruel.

And fuck, no, this tough love is definitely _not_ Louis’ new thing. He doesn’t care if this is beneficial in some sick and twisted way; Louis fucking hates this. He’s not Harry. He can’t just dish out cruelty.

The minutes pass by, only interrupted by the scratch of a pen against paper, and the songs of the birds outside that drift through Harry’s cracked windows. The sun is warm and golden, lighting the burnt leaves of the autumn trees outside, and everything seems fiery and alight as Louis gazes out the window. The world on fire, burning. Much like his insides, which twist and coil and burn. With guilt. And panic. And anxiety.

And just what the fuck is he doing and why? And where are the other boys when he needs them??

At long last, the pen’s scratches stop, and Harry brandishes the finished product at Louis, eyes never lifting from their downward trajectory.

Louis grabs the paper, feeling the brittle composure of his face, still unable to bring himself to look at Harry just yet and instead searching the document before him.

He stares. His heart constricts.

“You. You rewrote it,” he says, surprised, but his brow furrows and he looks to Harry for the conformation. “You rewrote the whole thing. Different.”

“You said you didn’t like my handwriting,” he says quietly, eyes still down, his lashes thick and clustered over his pale skin. And he almost looks on the verge of frustrated tears, his whole demeanor screaming rejection and insecurity, and it’s then that Louis sees just how _wrong_ this tactic was. It’s not helping _at all_ , not in any way, this fucking _shambles_ of an experiment at behavior. Because Harry’s sensitive, moreso than Louis realized, and he sees it in the bow of his head and the slouch of his shoulders, and the way his body seems to almost fold in on itself as he sits and waits to be criticized further.

And, fuck, Louis swallows. It really just seems as though…Harry’s used to this. Harry’s accustomed to being judged and mistreated. That he’s so in the groove of being subservient to those who take advantage of their power over him, that he immediately folds up without a fight, waiting to be taken advantage of even further and fuck, Louis is going to be sick.

“I-“ he begins, but words don’t come out as he clutches his paper.

Harry looks up at it, flicks his eyes over the words, and says in a dead voice, still not meeting Louis’ line of sight,, “Is it not good enough?”

And Louis really, really might be sick now.

“It’s—“ Louis begins, but he literally cannot speak, staring at Harry as Harry stares at the paper.

Moments pass, ones where their sights remain the same, before Harry eventually stands, still without meeting Louis’ eyes, and turns his back to him, trudging slowly to his room, hands limp.

“You can see yourself out. We’re done for the day.” The words are quiet. And then he slips inside his room and shuts the door.

And no. Nope. Fuck no, Louis cannot leave like this.

So Louis stands, paper in hand, in the exact same spot for what could’ve been seconds, minutes, hours, or years. 

Harry must’ve picked up on the fact that the sound of the door never came, because afore too long, his bedroom door creaks hesitantly and he’s peering out, eyebrows furrowed and eyes weary, lips set in a small, tentative frown that truly breaks Louis’ heart in ways he absolutely doesn't understand.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, and it’s almost fearful.

Louis stares at him. “I just. I’m…I’m looking at your curtains,” he bumbles, staring helplessly at the boy before him, his insides on the verge of leaking all over the floor.

“My…curtains?”

“Yes. Yeah. Yeah, your curtains. They’re a bit too long. And, see, I can touch ‘em up a bit if you like. So they don’t collect dust mites or, ya know, lie on the floor.” Louis’ voice is thick from his emotions and a little faint, and not once has he even looked in the direction of said curtains, but he can’t think of any other excuse and can’t even begin to formulate his honest thoughts as he stares unblinkingly at Harry, feeling like a prize idiot.

“I like my curtains. I don’t want them altered in any way,” Harry then says stubbornly, voice stronger, presence less hesitant, and Louis feels his blood begin to pump again at the familiarity of this Harry.

Thank fuck.

Louis nods. “All right, then. That’s fine.”

Silence.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” Harry asks again, now opening the door fully and stepping out.

“Because—I—cuz—fuck, Harry!” Louis curses, feeling really, really overwhelmed and at a loss. “What’s wrong with you? I don’t know what to—can’t you just—“ he blurts helplessly, overwhelmingly frustrated yet intangibly so as his words collide and fall over each other, and Harry’s eyes widen.

“What are you talking about? Why are you acting so fucking strange?” Harry’s voice has an almost overwhelmed edge as well, his own bewilderment evident, and Louis tries to assess the situation and the best way to handle it.

But, instead, he panics.

Louis panics, turns on his heel, and bolts out of the door, mumbling a “Fuck, I can’t do this,” and runs as fast as he can back to his flat, not even bothering to shut Harry’s door on the way out.

**

“I’m evil!” Louis wails as he flings himself onto Niall’s lap.

Niall, sandwich midway to mouth as he’s sprawled on the couch watching music videos, stares down at Louis.

“Hello.”

“I’m the most evil fucking brute in the world and I want to die. I was so mean to him, Niall. I was so fucking mean. And he was so sad! Fuck, he was just so sad and I’m shit. I’m a shit person and I don’t deserve any happiness ever again. Oi, is that pepperoni?” he adds, sniffing at Niall’s sandwich.

“Hey. Get your own,” Niall scolds, shielding the sandwich, before settling a hand on the top of Louis’ head. “Don’t worry so much, Tommo. You make a big deal out of everything and it always turns out to be nothing.”

“This isn’t nothing!”

“Well, whatever it is, It’s going to be fine. It happened. Move on. So do you want to get dinner?” he asks easily, in his emotionally uncomplicated way, and Louis really envies him that, the fact that he can hear awful things, distressing things, and just move on with his life without a second’s hesitation.

“I’m too sick to eat,” Louis grumbles, unabashedly pouting and sticking his face in Niall’s stomach, hoping to sponge his warmth as he clutches at his t-shirt.

Niall grins as he shakes his head, patting Louis on the head and searching for his hand before grasping it in his own, comfortingly. “What about sushi?” he offers.

Louis sighs, sitting up in annoyance, but doesn’t let go of Niall’s hand. “I’m not hungry, Ireland, I’m upset. I don’t know what to do about Harry.”

For a moment, Niall studies Louis, the soft and strategically placed lighting of their posh flat warming his Campbell’s soup cheeks and midsummer eyes that flick over Louis’ features, before he finally grasps Louis around his shoulders, pulling him in for a proper cuddle.

“All right, well. Maybe if you knew more about Harry, you’d get a better sense of where he’s coming from?” Niall offers, half-watching the TV as he pulls Louis closer to his chest.

Louis allows himself to settle into Niall’s embrace, despite the shady hot sauce stain on his t-shirt. “You know, that’s a not a half bad idea,” he mumbles, blinking his thoughts out. He cranes his neck to look at him. “Is this your subtle way of asking me if I’d like to know more about Harry?”

Niall laughs, breath hot as it collides with Louis’ face, who squints away the assault. “Nah, mate. I don’t know shite about Harry other than what I’ve already told you. Fuck, I bet Zayn knows a thing or two, though. They’ve been mates since kids. Ask him.”

Louis pauses, letting the information soak into his bloodstream. “Ask Zayn,” he repeats, slowly. He blinks. “Niall. That is potentially the most helpful thing you’ve ever said,” he says in awe.

There’s a jolly laugh and a mussing of Louis’ hair, and then Niall’s arms release him. “Glad we have that settled. Now get your cunt arse up so we can eat some fucking dinner.”

And, grinning as he flicks Niall on the underside of his nose, Louis hops up and makes for his room, feeling a little less complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, look at this because this was made for this story and it's ACCURATE and AMAZING. Gorgeous and pretty and perfect and let's all just love this, okay? :) http://secret-applebees-brigade.tumblr.com/post/59070314384/my-brain-is-all-over-the-place-figuring-stuff
> 
> Secondly, my songs for this chappa are: "No Light, No Light" by Florence & the Machine--the Unplugged version tho. And "Baby's On Fire" by Venus in Furs (that's a Harry song right there)
> 
> AND THIRDLY, THANK YOU ALL FOR READING AND BEING GORGEOUS. You are all so, so lovely and sweet and your messages have been sunshine to me. :)


	17. XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things make a little bit more sense to Louis.

The next day, before his tutoring session with Harry--and after the most boring day of lectures yet—Louis fell asleep during all three of them, being awkwardly awoken by others each time, papers crusted to his face--Louis knocks on Zayn’s door, his nerves jumbling frantically and his palms sweating with ‘what the fuck am I going to say’.

“Come in,” he hears the silken voice reply, and he pushes the door open, smiling instantly as he meets with Zayn, who is dressed in black track shorts and a Nirvana t-shirt, paint smeared on his hands and arms, as he stands before a canvas covered in blacks and grays, speckled with whites. 

“Hey,” Louis greets, his hands in his pockets as he slowly makes his way over, feeling rather awkward and nervous and generally weird.

Zayn smiles instantly as he takes in the sight. “Louis,” he greets, his pallet in his left hand, paintbrush in the other.

“Er, hi,” Louis greets once more, and his awkwardness is absolutely showing as he mentally scrambles for an introduction to what he’s trying to get at.

But Zayn doesn’t appear curious or intrigued, instead carrying on as if Louis wasn’t even in the room.

“I was wondering when you’d come to see me,” he finally says with a smirk, beautiful hazel eyes catching the crystals in the lights as he studies his work, then dips his brush in midnight blue paint.

“I see you all the time,” Louis replies with a laugh but it’s nervous and light and Louis shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.

Zayn glances up whilst smearing his brush in the rich color. “You’re here because of Harry,” is all he says.

Louis gapes. How in the fuck??

“How did you—“

“Relax. Doesn’t matter.” He pauses, running his brush along the top of the canvas, head tilted as he follows the motion of his hand. “Liam’s at a meeting. So we’re alone.”

Louis nods, understanding the implications, and appreciates the reassurance of privacy. But his stomach is still queasy. And his shoes suddenly feel too tight, so he taps them against the dark wood of the floor. They look so dirty against its polished gleam.

He’s never been alone with Zayn before. That, coupled with the awkward subject matter, is leaving Louis a little blank.

“If you ask me questions, I’ll answer honestly,” Zayn’s gentle, glossed voice prods, and though his eyes never leave his canvas, Louis knows he’s trying to help him, trying to ease him into a conversation he doesn’t quite know how to go about.

Louis begins to open his mouth.

“But only in regards to myself—situations that concern myself, and general knowledge. I won’t disclose any information that’s Harry’s own right to disclose. All right, mate?” he asks, but it’s not really a question, and he now dips his brush into a thick mess of gold as he stares at Louis head on.

Well shit.

There go all the questions.

But Louis nods anyway, admiring Zayn’s principles and morals and unyielding loyalty, and a small smile lightens his expression as he watches the beautiful boy before him. “All right,” he agrees.

And Zayn goes back to painting, quietly and steadily.

So. Here it is. But where does Louis start?

“I’m-I’m not sure if you know about the past couple days?” Louis begins, tugging the sleeves of his pale gray sweater over his hands, giving himself cozy little paws. He focuses on them, glancing occasionally up at Zayn who continues his work.

Zayn remains silent, impassive. Louis isn’t sure if that’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’—Zayn’s always been hard to read—so he doesn’t waste any time in wondering, merely plows on as he scrunches his sweater paws.

“I feel badly,” he continues, and he knows his voice sounds so unlike him, all serious and trepid, so he clears his throat and attempts a stronger tone. But it just comes out more disquieted. “I thought, maybe, if I knew more about him, I could...understand him better? I don’t know, Zayn. I just…” He bounces his paws together, flicks his hair out of his eyes, smoothes out his features. “I think we could be mates, yeah? But I need to know what’s…wrong.”

He glances upward as he says the last word, and Zayn nods, just barely, eyes focused, listening, and understanding.

“So, I was wondering.” Louis stares at him, dropping his paws to his sides, letting his hands break through the sleeves. “Could you tell me everything you know about Harry. In regards to you. What’s your story, that sort of thing.”

Hopefully that was in the realm of safe questioning.

Louis waits.

And Zayn smiles. “Good question.” Louis relaxes. “We went to school together, me and Harry. Since young lads.”

“All right. Were you friends?”

“Yeah, of course. Good friends. We’d grown up a bit together, cuz we were in the same social circle, our parents. Des’ wife when Harry was a kid was a model, so they were always at all the banquets and gatherings that my mum went to. Then we started going to school together.”

“So you’re childhood friends,” Louis restates conclusively, and Zayn nods, flicking paint onto the canvas in splatters.

“We kicked about at school. Harry was always popular, always got attention, always was first in everything.”

“I reckon you weren’t much different,” Louis smiles.

Zayn shrugs. “Yes and no. I didn’t like the attention, see. But Harry loved it. It wasn’t the same at home, like, so he loved everything about it. He was a sweet, charming lad.”

“Was he. What happened?” Louis scoffs.

There’s a moment’s silence, where Zayn sets down his pallet and picks up a moist rag, beginning to clean his brush. His face is calm and emotionless, but it doesn’t quiet Louis’ intrigue any, instead setting him even more on the edge.

“It’s common knowledge that Harry’s mum died when he was 9.”

No it’s not. But Louis nods.

“People said he weren’t upset about it. And he wasn’t on the outside—not really. But—“ Zayn suddenly stops, his motions stilling as his eyes get lost somewhere on the ground, his mind far. And then suddenly his movements continue, the cloth dragging over the brush, and he’s back. “Well, that’s his story to tell. He’d had a time of it though, Harry, and just because nobody else could tell by the way he acted, doesn’t mean there wasn’t shit happening to him.”

Brush now clean, Zayn sets his tools down before gliding towards the large table that sits in the middle of the room, picking up a slim, guilt case. He opens it, extracts a cigarette, then offers one to Louis, who takes it without hesitation, as he waits for Zayn to continue.

Zayn places the cigarette between his perfect lips, the white contrasting against the warm hues of his flesh, and he fumbles for a lighter in his pocket. “He’s had quite a few mums. None of them stuck around. And then Des started dating my mum.” The lighter flicks into life and licks at the cigarette as Zayn inhales, deep and beautifully, long, dark eyelashes draped over his cheeks. “We were about fifteen at the time,” he exhales through smoke, the words curling into wisps. “Then they got married, we all moved in.” He pauses, reflecting, pinching his cigarette between paint stained fingers. “He was happier then, Harry. He still had his demons, but he weren’t… He had fun, yeah, but he cared. We got into so much trouble.” Zayn smirks at the memory.

Louis smiles in response, passing his unlit cigarette between his hands, listening intently.

“He introduced me to everything. We partied all day, every day. Drank everything we could get our hands on, fucked everything we could get our hands on, smoked everything we could get our hands on—the first time I tried a cigarette was with him.”

Louis can’t help but laugh at the reverence in Zayn’s voice, and Zayn matches it, his chuckles soft and cute, so unlike the sharp contours of his exterior.

“We did everything together. To be honest, I think we were both a bit angry about our parents being married. Des was better back then, he were on medication and he wasn’t drinking as much and was still clean, so he was all right. I never cared much for him though. If he weren’t on the road or doing press, he were in the recording studio, and he never said much. Cared more about guitars than people, I reckon. But we were best mates, Harry and I, so we saw it as an excuse to fight together, you know? Us against the world, that sort of thing. And Harry was good, he was funny and thoughtful and fucking weird. And played the violin and asked me to sing cuz he loved my voice. Told everybody how good I was. Brought me everywhere. Showed me everything. Picked flowers and left wreaths at me door and fell asleep in my bed and…” Zayn pauses, his brow beginning to furrow. “He wasn’t perfect, but he was better than he is now. It all changed when Gemma left. And then his au pair.”

“Wait, what?” Louis asks, surprised. “His au pair?”

Zayn nods, slowly, eyes downcast. “She was the closest thing he had to real affection, I think, aside from Gemma. Des hated her. She hated Des.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “But Gems left first. Took off cuz Burberry signed her on. Was already dabbling in drugs, then became a proper addict. Cut off all ties from the family—even Harry. It got to him. But I didn’t notice at the time. He never said anything, never acted any different. Weren’t till later that I realized… But I think it was too late.” Zayn’s voice is quiet now, distant and calm like the rolls of the ocean, and Louis can barely hear over the cracking of his own ribcage.

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, voice whisper soft. He isn’t sure if Zayn hears him.

“Only about a month later did… _she_ leave. The au pair.” Zayn’s voice is funny, his face contorted. “Harry loved her, though he never said it, I don’t think. But he did, I know he did, and when she left, things really started to change. Again, it was too hard for me to tell at the time. I didn’t even realize. But after that, gradually, he became who he is now. Empty. Distracting himself. Existing on the outside but not on the inside.” Zayn looks down, his cigarette dwindling to ash.

But Louis, having swiftly gone from sad to infuriated within seconds, stares at him, mouth agape.

Because WHAT did Zayn just say?

“What?” he demands, but Zayn doesn’t look up. “Are you fucking serious right now? No, really. Are you?” Zayn bites his lip. “You fucking see it? You know that something’s drastically wrong with this boy, and you don’t do a fucking thing about? You just let it happen?! I thought I was the only one who noticed, Zayn! Fuck’s sake, why isn’t anybody trying to help him?!”

“I can’t do anything, Louis,” Zayn says quietly, but Louis doesn’t hear.

“I’ve been sick over the TRAGEDY of that human being in the mere two months that I’ve known him, and you’ve known him for years and yet you don’t even fucking care?! Zayn, what the actual fuck?? That’s not—“

“I tried, Louis,” Zayn says, voice louder, and he looks up at Louis, eyes filled with more emotion than Louis has ever seen in them. “I tried, all right? But he didn’t…” he trails off, stubbing his cigarette into a tiny, silver try. He sighs, silkenly, movements smooth as his face begins to relax. “There are certain things Liam doesn’t know, Louis. Things he doesn’t need to know.” Zayn’s eyes raise, connecting with Louis’.

“What are you saying?” Louis asks slowly.

Zayn sighs. “I was in love with Harry.”

Louis lets out a stream of breath.

“I was fucking gone for him,” Zayn continues, gaze distant. “Would’ve done anything for him.”

“Did he know?”

“Yeah.”

Shit.

“Did you guys ever…?”

“Yeah. All the time.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “Fuck. No wonder Liam doesn’t know.”

“And he shouldn’t. It’s not important anymore. I didn’t know Liam then. All I had was Harry. And I thought we were something, I did. But, apparently, I was alone in that. He never connected sex with love. Never. Hell, he never connected love with anything because he’s never really known what it is. I told him how I viewed the situation every day. I tried to talk to him, tried to take care of him, but we were young, too fucking young, and he never came close, Louis. Never once came close to being anybody other than the person everybody else knew. He cared, yeah, but not the same. It was never the same. He laughed when I first told him that I loved him.”

A thousand emotions are flowing through Louis, each more powerful and overwhelming than the last. He swallows past them though, mind whirring, before settling his gaze back on Zayn, who is now staring at him.

“What happened after your mum and Des split?”

Zayn shrugs. “We left. Mum tried to keep in touch with Harry, but. He never wanted it. Suppose he’s had enough mums in his life. I don’t know. She tried being good to him, she did, but…he wasn’t right. He never treated her like a mum. He charmed her, made her laugh, was kind to her, but. I don’t think he could love her. So she never loved him.” He shrugs once more. “At least, I don’t think she did, I don’t know.”

A heavy silence settles, and Louis’ thoughts are loud enough to echo as he paces the room, envisioning a sixteen year old Harry, bright, beautiful, shining, and on the verge of being lost forever. His heart cringes, the thought burning into his brain.

“Well, then. Wow,” Louis finally says, lifting his eyebrows as he attempts to crawl back into the present. “So there’s that.”

“Don’t give up on him,” Zayn says, cool and calm, remastering his control.

Louis looks to him, startled. “What—“

“I think you’d be good for him. As a _mate_ ,” he adds, as Louis opens his mouth in protest. “He could use someone like you. Someone who won’t take his shit, someone who’s strong and got a good head on his shoulders. Someone who’s kind as well. You’re funny, too, and you’d get on, I know you would. I like you, Louis. I think Harry would, too.”

“I don’t think Harry could ever like me, to be honest. Especially not after this week.” Louis shakes his head at the memory. “Did you know he had me run all around town? Picking up cheese danishes and fetching nonexistent books? Just so he could laugh at me with a couple of tarts? He don’t give no fucks, Zayn, I’m telling you. He won’t even talk to me.”

“It’s not him being cruel, though, that’s the thing,” Zayn continues patiently, settling in his throne and leaning back. “He just doesn’t know how to act most of the time. Not really. It’s not in him, like. He’s been through a lot, more than you know, more than I know, and he’s got scars, massive scars. He doesn’t know how to heal himself. If he can heal at all. I don’t know. Thing is, Louis. You’ve got to be patient with him.”

“Zayn,” Louis says, taking a seat on Zayn’s left. He holds his stare, articulating each word, hoping to sink them into Zayn’s understanding. “I was _nice_ to him. On Monday, I told myself that, no matter what shit he pulled or bullshit he spit, I was gonna be nice to him. And do you know what happened? He treated me like dirt. Like fucking pond scum. For no fucking reason!”

No reaction emerges from Zayn, just calm, lidded eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes that tickle the sky. “Did he know you were acting nice? On purpose, like?”

“What?” Louis blinks, confused. “I dunno. Yeah, I guess.”

Zayn shakes his head, lets out another sigh. “I’ll say this once, Louis. Every day he deals with phony people. They just hang about for his money or his dad or his name or whatever. They pretend to be nice. They do whatever he says. At home, if they remembered he was there, he was treated the same. Given what he wanted, pushed aside. I saw it myself. Louis,” Zayn says, voice emphatic, and Louis leans forward, feeling like a dumbbell’s just dropped on him. “There’s a reason he reacts the way he does.”

Louis stares dumbly.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“That makes sense, doesn’t it,” he says quietly.

“I don’t have all the answers. There’s a lot I don’t know about him—he doesn’t talk about anything. Never. But it’s not hard to put some of it together, yeah? Be patient with him,” he repeats.

Patient. With Harry. Yeah.

_Fuck._

“Yeah. I will be,” Louis promises, but he’s barely registering his own words, instead lost amongst the hundreds of words that have barreled him over during this brief encounter. “I better go.”

He stands up and, with wobbly legs, makes for the door, Zayn remaining in his throne at the head of the table.

“There’s one more thing you should know about Harry,” Zayn’s voice suddenly says, cutting the silence of the room and the chaos of Louis’ thoughts.  

Louis pauses, turns to face him, his emotions already overburdened. He gives an expectant look.

“His family is everything to him. Des is all he’s got left. His mum’s gone. And his sister’s wasting away. She doesn’t care. His father’s all he’s got, Louis. Even if Des…” Zayn stops himself, reassessing his choice of words. “Des has no right to Harry’s loyalty,” he amends. “But he’s got it. He’s got it in spades, and Harry won’t ever change.”

Louis swallows. “Why do I need to know that?”

“Because if that’s the only thing that matters to him, then it’d probably affect his life, wouldn’t it?” Zayn hints.

Ah.

“So, like when he’s in a bad mood or summat, it’s probably cuz of…” Louis concludes hesitantly, not knowing how to appropriately word the sentence, feeling that ending it with ‘his train wreck of a father’ may be a bit harsh.

“There’s more than meets the eye. That’s all I’m saying,” Zayn finishes, and he unscrews the cap of a nearby water bottle before bringing it to his lips.

Louis follows the movement with his eyes, brows pinching. “But I knew that already. I know that his father, or whatever, bothers him.”

Zayn quiets, setting the bottle down, peering at Louis with half-lidded eyes. “But I don’t think you realize how much. I know I didn’t.” He pauses, bringing his hand up to play idly with the newly-formed scruff beneath his chin, contemplating his next words. At last, he concludes with, “I’m asking you to look out for him, Louis. I know he doesn’t know you that well and you don’t always get on, but.” His gaze connects with Louis’. “He’s different with you. In the short time he’s known you, he’s opened up more than he has to me in the fifteen years we’ve known each other. And that’s just from the little I’ve seen. Even if he doesn’t realize it…” He leans forward enough to lay his warm fingers on Louis’ forearm, and his quiet, hazel eyes cut through the air, through Louis. “You affect him.”

Louis blinks.

He affects him?

Louis affects Harry? Cold, moody, empty, barren, makes-Louis-fetch-nonexistent-textbooks-just-for-the-fun-of-it Harry?

His body reacts, sending surges of blood and thoughts swimming within, colliding with each other and erupting in sparks, and he’s not even sure why, probably couldn’t explain it if he was asked, but he feels significant somehow, in hearing this. Significant and torn, and all he can think about is how Harry still probably hasn’t found what he’s looking for, still searching empty houses and staring at a blank phone, and he wonders how many times Harry’s cried or Harry’s grabbed onto something for dear life because he felt utterly helpless and alone and unwanted and—

Fuck fuck fuck. Louis’ eyes almost begin to prickle with just too many thoughts. All for a boy who, despite Louis “affecting” him, barely exists. Harry’s somewhere _beyond_ the realm of existence, in the dark corners that get forgotten or shunned, and he’s far away from everybody, so far away, but Louis imagines himself reaching out, imagines stretching his hand into the bleak darkness, and imagines his fingers brushing against the bits of Harry that are still there.

And that’s all he needs.

Louis opens his mouth to respond to the watchful eyes of Zayn, whose hand still rests lightly upon Louis’ flesh, his words seeming to echo through the room and slide off of the smooth surfaces, when the door is suddenly thrown open, and in emerges Liam, a smile instantly splitting his face.

“Louis!” he greets, delighted, and walks up to him, smiling giddily squeezing his elbow, before pressing a sweet kiss to Zayn’s lips. “How are you, mate?”

“Uh, good, I’m good,” Louis barely manages, still reeling from everything that had just happened, and Liam’s grin is only lightly questioning, his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “How was your meeting?”

“Do you know what, it was actually really strange. I’m the editor of the paper, see, but there was this guy who I’ve never seen before, and he kept going about and trying to make all these decisions, and saying all this rubbish about what he thinks we should be doing. And I thought it was funny because…”

Liam continues talking, about whatever it is he’s talking about, and Zayn is at least pretending to be interested in it, so Louis allows himself to zone out, giving in to his many thoughts that currently plague him.

Thought of:

_Harry Harry Harry Harry fuck shit oh god I feel terrible what’s happening to my life Harry Harry Harry I’m an arse Harry Harry Harry_

“Louis.”

Upon hearing his name, he returns his attentions back to the present.

“Yes?” he asks, blinking, looking to an expectant Liam.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Liam asks, in a tone that implies it wasn’t the first time he’s asked it. “Tea? Water? Anything?”

“I love water,” Louis says distractedly, and Zayn peers at him from his chair as he brings his hand up to lace his fingers with Liam’s, draped over his shoulder.

“Did you know that water is both the softest and strongest force in the world?” Liam asks animatedly.

And Louis knows Liam doesn’t feel the weight of emotions that Louis and Zayn currently do. He knows that he wasn’t there, didn’t hear the words spoken, didn’t envision the thoughts, didn’t partake in this mess of a conversation, but Louis still prickles with annoyance at his oblivious comments and his pert, polished voice, so he steps away before another word is said.

“Sorry mates, I’ve got to go.”

Liam pouts. “But I’ve only just gotten here.”

“I’ve got tutoring with Harry.”

He laughs, swift and short. “Oh yeah. How’s that going, by the way?”

Louis doesn’t know how to reply as his mouth searches for words, any words.

“Stop distracting him, he’s already late,” Zayn tells Liam, nudging him gently in the side, and Liam immediately looks to Louis in apology.

“Oh! Terribly sorry mate! I’ll text you later.”

“Yeah. Sounds good. See you guys later,” Louis says, and he leaves, dazed, and heads toward Harry’s rooms, totally unprepared for the day’s tutoring session.

Or, rather, totally unprepared for Harry.

**

When Harry opens the door, his face is unreadable, his eyes dark.

“So,” he says, folding his arms across his chest as he stares at Louis, dressed in a shimmery gray sweater and black skinny jeans, effortlessly chic and smelling of privilege and manufacturing. “Which personality has decided to show up today?”

The sentence is cold, but it’s said quietly enough, the words reverberating against the chilly breeze that tousles Louis’ hair and rustles the leaves on the nearby trees, so that Louis only feels guiltier, dumber, sadder.

Louis sighs, looking down at his feet.

“Fair enough, that,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, but he sees Harry’s face react in his peripherals, so he chances a glance upward.

The boy’s eyebrows are furrowed, but there’s a quiet curiosity sitting in the corners, and it’s almost encouraging, really, that there isn’t complete vehemence in his expression.

“I’m coming inside. It’s cold,” he declares, but he peeks out a small smile as he says it, catching Harry’s eye.

Harry replies with silence, but nods once, stepping back and closing the door behind him once he’s entered.

And then Louis is standing in the middle of the room, taking in the new rugs lain on the floor (they’re rather nice), and Harry stands behind him, stiff, just staring with an intent scowl that could either be concentration or abhorrence—at this point, Louis really doesn’t know.

Zayn’s words are crowding his skull.

_…just because nobody else could tell by the way he acted, doesn’t mean there wasn’t shit happening._

_I was in love with Harry._

_…he never connected love with anything because he’s never really known what it is…_

_Be patient with him._

_You affect him._

Fuck.

There’s a lot happening right now.

“Look,” he says, turning to face Harry, and he forces himself to look in those eyes. Those terrifying, vacant eyes. “I’m really sorry.”

Harry stares, his scowl morphing into lines of confusion.

But Louis just continues. “I’m sorry about yesterday, about the day before, about every day, about now, about everything. I’m sorry. I’ve been an idiot, to be honest. And I’m sorry, Harry.”

There’s this heavy moment of silence where Louis stares at Harry, feeling awkward and like he’s on fire, and Harry looks almost comically bewildered, caught between frowning and widening his eyes.

“You’re apologizing?” he asks at last, slow and suspicious, but he keeps his distance.

Louis nods. “Well, yeah. I kind of have to.” He pauses. “I mean, I left your door open when I left yesterday. How rude was that?”

At that, Harry’s lip twitches, and though no actual smile is made, Louis still feels instant relief.

“I really am sorry though,” Louis adds quietly after a moment, and he looks down once more, fiddling with the fabric of his jeans.

He hears the drag of Harry’s shoe across the floor as he draws patterns with the toe of his boot, and one brief glance upward tells him that Harry is looking down as well, hands clasped behind his back, and he looks fragile and petite and small despite his towering frame and giraffe limbs, resembling a shy little schoolchild on their first day. It’s sort of bizarre and insanely out of character, this almost bashful discomfort coming from him, yet it somehow fits him perfectly, and Louis can’t stop sneaking glances at the spectacle.

“It’s okay,” a small voice purrs quietly, and it takes a moment for Louis to realize it’s Harry that’s said that, and not a voice of his own imagining.

His neck almost pops as he shoots his head up, staring at Harry who still isn’t looking at him.

And he wants to ask if Harry _actually_ just said that, just vocally forgave Louis, or if he just misunderstood, but he doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want to force too much attention on it, and so he just shuts his gaping mouth and clasps his own hands behind his back as well, biting back a smile.

“So you going to tutor me, then?” he asks after a momentary silence. “And properly, I mean, not just one of those bloody outlines that are as useful as the textbooks I can’t bother to read anyway?” Louis’ voice is teasing, smile still present.

Harry nods, expression quiet. “I’ll teach you what I can. I make no promises, but I’ll help. Properly,” he adds, and Louis’ smile widens. “I can’t today, though. I’ve actually got to—I—“ he cuts off, picking up his phone off of a nearby table, and Louis knows. He just knows it has to do with Des, something that Louis can’t quite understand, and he hears Zayn telling him to be patient, telling him about the shit nobody can see that lies quietly inside of Harry.

“Yeah, alright, no worries,” he agrees, nodding. “Tomorrow, then.”

Harry nods, eying Louis. “Don’t be late,” he bosses.

“Don’t bring a harem,” Louis counters.

Harry glares. “I don’t have a harem.”

“Well, see, now you’re just lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. But it’s alright, mate, cuz I told you you had shit handwriting yesterday, and that was a lie, so. I figure we’re even.”

“You’re aware your opinions bear no effect on me, correct?” Harry asks dryly, folding his arms across his chest again.

“I never said they did.”

“I never said you said they did.”

Right then.

Louis blinks at him, not fully understanding where the conversation went wrong. Apparently Harry Styles is four years old.

“I think this would be a good time to leave.”

“Good. I’ve got to go.” Harry turns around, heading towards his room.

Louis does the same, except in the opposite direction, but just as he’s about to reach the door:

“Wait.”

Louis stops, turns around. “Yes?”

Harry looks at him hard, his curls frizzy and lopsided, his sweater hanging off of his shoulders. “Don’t ever do that again. Being all…weird." His eyebrows pinch the tiniest bit more. "I don’t like it.”

Louis considers. “Only if you don’t ever ask me to get you a cheese danish again.”

And Louis swears that Harry bites his lip to hold back an amused smirk, but he can’t be sure.

“Right,” is all Harry says, before continuing to his room and shutting the door.

A small laugh escapes Louis as he opens the door.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, then leaves, smile still in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yay. i got this whole bit done now and I'm just happy about it. Woooo! I suggest we all make a toast (I'm thinking punch) and wear pearls in celebration. Mkkur? Mkur. 
> 
> This chapter's song is a very special song: "Us Against the World" by Coldplay. It's sort of baby Zayn and baby Harry's song in this story, from Zayn's perspective. But, I think, it's slowly becoming Louis' song for Harry as well. :) You've gotta listen to this song, though. The full thing. Loudly. Preferably at night. At 2:10, my fav bit begins. Listen to it!!
> 
> Thank you again, my treasures! I love you all! Come chat! (tumblr = mizzwilde) I love hearing your words and your thoughts and your loveliness. And if you have any music recs or if you find a pic that reminds you of this story, hollaaa. That shit's my fav. <3


	18. XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis thinks he might be getting somewhere. Maybe.

For the rest of the week, Harry tutors Louis in helpful and beneficial ways.

And Louis doesn’t really know what he was expecting to happen in that week, after they’d made their sort-of peace, but it wasn’t…this.

But it’s not like he had envisioned, say, Harry joyously opening the door upon his arrival and proceeding to laugh at all of Louis’ jokes and spill his tightly locked away secrets and cry to him about feeling unaccepted and apologize for all his previous wrongs. No, Louis didn’t envision that in any way or form, certainly not. Because that would just be odd and abrasive and thoroughly too much, especially considering they weren’t even proper mates yet.

Still, though.

Harry could’ve at least started…smiling, or something.

And sure, yeah, it’s only been a handful of days, but honestly. Zayn told Louis to keep his patience and fuck, yep, he’s definitely going to need patience because Harry is layered, layered, layered in issues and walls and unfeeling weariness and Louis’ not even sure if he’s begun to chip away at any of it.

So, needless to say, that first day after Louis apologized and Harry actually accepted it, was a bit of a disappointment.

Louis had left early his flat early (not in hopes to bond or anything, nope) and was just rounding the corner to Harry’s building, ready to mount the grand steps that led to his beautiful rooms over the sunny gardens, when he stopped in his tracks, the low, musical rumble of Harry’s voice catching in his ears. He searched for the source, eyes flicking through the passing students dressed to the nines, hoisting up their Armani bags, heels clicking against the ancient walkways, trying to spot a bow tie or a mess of coiffed curls.

Eventually he found his target. Resplendent in ivory and gold, his bow tie glowing under autumn sun, the diamonds of his watch shining like a beacon, looking typically ridiculous and endearing simultaneously. While talking to a beautiful raven haired girl in a long, pale yellow dress. Swiping his finger beneath her giggling chin.

He was smiling down at her—with that smile that makes Louis shudder, with its emptiness and villainous tight corners—and pressing whispers into her ear that forced even more tiny, insistent giggles out of her as she stared adoringly. Harry’s grin grew with each breathy laughter, and Louis distinctly remembers finding it nothing but sinister.

And, somehow, just so incredibly disheartening. And sad.

But also annoying.

After a few warm clutches of the arm and coquettish pleasantries delivered with a lot of teeth and dimple, Harry finally sent the girl on her way, smacking her bum as she giggled and left.

Which is exactly when Louis marched over.

As Harry turned to face him, the remnants of his soulless, amused smile faded, his eyes connecting with Louis’. The false cordiality that had previously taken hostage of his face was swiftly replaced with something…quieter, more observant, and…trepid? It wasn’t smiley, no, but it wasn’t fake either, so Louis thought of it as a good start to their session.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry greeted, but his voice was lackluster, and Louis really would like to think it hadn’t been filled with something that could be recognized as disappointment, but, well. It had been.

Which took Louis by surprise. Because wasn’t Harry supposed to be all excited to see Louis now that they basically had agreed to be bestest mates and share secrets? Shouldn’t they be holding each other while they cried by now? So Louis sort of half-waved in an extremely unnecessary manner and smiled awkwardly while also feeling his eyes narrow with weariness. He can only imagine what his face must’ve looked like.

“Hi Curly,” he responded almost automatically, but his nerves had already surfaced, making his voice bumpy, sharp with uncertainty on the edges.

It felt like Harry assessed him for a full minute, eyes blank and built far away, but Louis could almost feel a hum beneath the boy’s skin, as if a thousand panicked thoughts were flitting through his bloodstream. And Louis could only hypothesize that somehow, somewhere, Harry had already come to regret their peace treaty, had already made up his mind not to have any more friends, let alone ones like Louis Tomlinson.

Because Harry liked distance. And, perhaps, he could see that Louis did not.  
  
In any case, Harry’s eyes revealed nothing, and at last the spell was broken when Harry swooped his curls out of his face with a large, pearl-smooth hand.

“Right. Well. I’m going up the stairs now,” he said, and Louis couldn’t tell if he was feeling awkward or if he just had a habit of stating unnecessary comments. But he continued, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket, hands on his lapels. “You are to remain five paces behind me,” he added, but it seemed forced and determined. Almost as if Harry was attempting to rekindle their past mutual distaste.

Which…really?

So Louis rolled his eyes. “I think we’re past this by now, aren’t we? Besides, I think you meant to say ‘steps.’”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You meant five _steps_ behind you. Because I would say ‘paces’ is more of a walking term. ‘Steps’ ensures a distance of five actual steps. Since we’re going up stairs and all. With steps.” Louis smiled sunnily, tilting his head with exaggerated cuteness.

“You can still use ‘paces’ for walking up steps,” he snapped, eyebrows furrowing at lightning speed.

“But it’s not as succinct, is it?”

There was a pause where Harry studied him, glare mingled with the tiniest hint of actual confusion, and Louis could see the wheels turning as he pondered his choice of vocabulary.

“No matter,” he finally concluded. “Just stay behind.”

“Oh, sure thing, Curls.”

And so Louis raced ahead.

“Hey!” Harry immediately protested, and jolted forward, dashing after Louis up the steps and grabbing at his orange jumper spastically, his serene image of charming cool long forgotten.

“I WIN!” Louis declared in a thunderous tone as soon as he reached the top, shoving victorious fists in the air.

Harry huffed behind him, shaking out his hand which had knocked against the railing unpleasantly when Louis shoved him off.

“That’s not fair,” he grumbled in protest, but Louis turned to him, grinning.

“ _’Remain five steps behind me’_ ” he repeated in laughing disbelief, rolling his eyes and shaking his head while Harry glanced at him with slight discomfort, still cradling his hand. “The things that come out of your mouth. I tell ya, son.”

“’Paces’ not ‘steps,’” is all Harry mumbled in response, before begrudgingly unlocking his door and letting Louis in.

“So you’re teaching me proper, yeah?” Louis asked upon entering, flopping down on the chaise longue and grinning, kicking off his shoes.

Harry froze at the spectacle, keys dangling from his long fingers. “Gross. Shoes must be kept on at all times.”

“My feet are cold,” Louis replied, as if that was the end of that, and slid his phone out of his pocket, shifting his attentions elsewhere.

With a steeling of the shoulders, Harry stalked over to his desk, muttering obscenities. “Fine, whatever.”

Louis smiled as he flitted through old texts, staring unseeingly as his screen.

There were a few moments of silence, interrupted only by the opening of Harry’s desk drawers and the rustling of papers while Louis flicked through his phone, answering a text from Niall that merely said:

_‘Best mates yet?’_

To which Louis’ replied: _‘Dnt be cheeky’_

A few more moments passed, and Louis took in the room, the cat figurines, the velvet curtains that brushed the floors, Zayn’s paintings that hung quietly, and the scattered pages of sheet music that littered the corner by a violin and an ancient lute, Harry’s familiar scrawl covering the margins and every other bit of white space. Which, huh, Louis didn’t know Harry wrote music. But it didn’t really come as much of a surprise.

Silence dragged on, Harry still rummaging in his drawers with that quiet displeasure written in his features, and Louis watched him, noting the shadows and wondering their cause. He wanted to ask, GOD, he wanted to ask what they were from, but he didn’t, knowing it would probably only serve to distance him further from Harry, and so he merely watched, biting back the question that always pressed against his brain and tongue every time he’s alone with Harry: ‘Have you found Des yet?’

He’s not even sure if that’s the right question. But, regardless, he didn’t ask it then and he still hasn’t since.

So, instead, he stretched out his limbs after the silence felt too long, yawning exaggeratedly loud in hopes to catch Harry’s eye.

Which, nope.

Irked, Louis stood up, walking over to stand before Harry’s desk, knuckles thumping against the wood.

Almost immediately, Harry’s eyes, which were studying some bit of paper, his head bent, shot toward the source of noise, before shooting even further up to meet Louis’ eyes.

Irate. That would probably be the appropriate description of Harry’s stare.

Louis smirked. “I’m ready for my incredibly insightful, helpful-beyond-belief lesson, Curly McCurlyfish.” Harry’s eyes rolled. “Mould me! Transform me into a new and better machine of wisdom!”

With a light shake of the head, Harry returned to his seemingly pointless duty of paper shuffling. “I’m not really one for impossible tasks,” he muttered, shoulders dainty and slouched, a curl catching in his eyelashes.

“But the impossible ones are the funnest ones,” Louis countered, tapping the wood of the desk incessantly, his impatience and annoyance beginning to ripple.

Harry paused, observing him, before he finally shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied simply, then motioned for Louis to sit, and proceeded with the tutoring.

And that’s how it went.

That’s how it’s been going since. Louis being playful and charming and endearing (yes, all of those things) as he examines Harry’s belongings, stares out of Harry’s windows, asks every question that comes to mind, begs for tea (and that’s one thing that’s different—Harry now knows exactly how Louis likes his tea, which is something Louis takes very seriously), all the while as Harry tolerates, judges, and teaches in his slow, cascading voice that tastes like chocolate and feels like suede, sitting in his desk chair and sipping champagne, adjusting his Chanel watch, mussing his hair, checking his phone, and getting lost in his own thoughts.

But he teaches Louis—he really does. His slowness allows Louis to keep up, his indifference leaves room for Louis to try harder, and sometimes, when he’s quoting some novel or poet or author or whateverthefuck, the tragically beautiful words match the tragically beautiful prisms in Harry’s eyes, and the words echo in Louis’ brain, staying with him for the rest of the day, through sleep, and into the next lecture where he’s asked to write them down from memory.

Sometimes the left side of Harry’s mouth will twist when he’s talking about things he cares about—say, Oscar Wilde, who he speaks of religiously, adoringly, reverently, endlessly--and sweet mother of god, Louis means _endlessly--_ or Victorian culture, and Louis thinks it may be some sort of smile that struggles to surface, but the walls of Harry’s face haven’t learned to let it through yet. Louis marvels when it happens, because he likes to think it grows stronger every day, though that’s probably not the case. Still though, Harry alights when he speaks of such things, stuffing the details into his sentences, and his quiet, dopey enthusiasm that seeps through his calm exterior has Louis feeling triple the enthusiasm he would normally feel, hanging onto Harry’s every word and phrase, every blink and slide of fingertips against brittle book pages. It’s a passion of his, Louis surmises, so it’s quite convenient that he’s tutoring him in a Victorian course that he couldn’t care less about himself.

So it works. And Louis is learning. He can tell by the way he doesn’t fall asleep as much in lecture, or by the fact that the thought of doing his homework doesn’t traumatize him. It’s helping, and he’s grateful, and sometimes when he leaves the lecture hall, he texts a boastful exclamation to Harry.

Because, yes, Louis forced them to exchange numbers. And, no, Harry never texts him back. Ever. As in, not once. Not even if Louis has a question.

So there’s that as well.

And it’s all this—the lack of warmth, the unresponsiveness, the lack of progression, Harry’s seeming indifference to Louis’ general existence—that has Louis contemplating ditching today’s tutoring altogether, helpful or not.

Because it’s been a shit day. He slept through his first course, got woken up by Niall’s fucking piano and a text from his sister complaining about Mother Dearest (but Niall assured him that he’d spoken to Jo since and he’s sorted her out, so…yeah…that happened) and he’s had a splitting headache. Not to mention the fact that he spilled beans all over his pristine, white trousers, or the fact that he tripped on one of Niall’s empty beer bottles that he likes to keep on the floor, or that tomorrow’s Halloween and Zayn’s throwing the party of the century and he really, really wants to be rested and energized for such antics and also, hopefully, be in a somewhatly pleasant mood. Which, at this point, seems less than likely.

And now his phone’s dead, he’s hungry and had forgotten his wallet this morning before he left, and he’s supposed to be at Harry’s in ten minutes so he can sit and be talked at by a poisonous mouth and guarded eyes and fuck all of that.

Fuck it.

Louis is going back to his flat.

So he just keeps walking.

**

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Harry’s?” Niall asks mildly, strumming his guitar on the couch. Rory’s in the kitchen, cooking up something that smells delicious. And fuck, are those chocolate biscuits?

“Hungry. Hate the world. Don’t give no fucks,” he manages, stuffing biscuits in his mouth without hesitation, and Rory raises his eyebrows, but Louis can’t quite care right now.

“Did you text him?”

Louis scoffs, crumbs falling from his open-because-it’s-so-stuffed-he-can’t-close-it mouth. “Like he’d even read it,” he says almost unintelligibly, sending sprays of biscuit bits at Rory who winces and looks on at the spectacle with severe distaste.

“Glass of water?” he offers with a grimace, and Louis glares.

“Oh, shut up. I don’t judge you when you hang your sweaty socks over our chairs,” Louis counters, now reaching for the Nutella, and Rory sniffs but keeps the peace.

“So then…FIFA?” Niall offers, glancing back at him.

Louis uncaps the Nutella, dipping his finger in and scooping up a heaping portion. With blissful ease he licks it away, his smile blooming and warming his cheeks.

“Sure thing, Nialler. FIFA it shall be.”

And Louis plops on the couch alongside Niall, grabs a controller, and lets his nerves uncoil.

**

“You really should go to your lesson. Didn’t you say it was helping you?” Niall asks after a few failed rounds, chomping down the stew that Rory had just made.

Louis snatches a bit of meat from him, causing Niall to nearly growl. “Yeah, probably. But I doubt he even notices that I’m not there, to be honest.”

“I thought you were getting on?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I don’t think he hates me anymore or anything. But, like, he doesn’t smile or laugh or talk much. He just…sort of sit there. Judging me. With those eyes. Those very unnerving eyes.”

“Maybe you deserve to be judged. You can be quite annoying.”

“Hey!” Louis squawks, shooting upwards and staring at Niall, appalled. “I’m not annoying! You’re annoying!”

“I’m sociable. There’s a difference.”

“There is not. Besides, I’m attractive.”

Niall stares at him like he’s confessed to liking women. Or something equally absurd. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“So you agree!” Louis sings, and plants a kiss on Niall’s temple before hopping  up off of the couch.

Niall shrugs. “I’d shag ya,” he says, then burps.

Louis pauses. “You would?”

“Yeah. You’re fit. Why not?”

Louis’ hand immediately clutches at his heart, his mouth opening in shock. “Why, Niall Horan! That may be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He grins, settling deeper into the couch and shoving another spoonful of stew into his mouth. “That’s what friends are for!” he says jovially, and Louis pecks him on the top of his head before darting to his room. “You going to Harry’s?”

“Yep!” Louis calls from his room. “Suppose I should. I know I’m late, but. Even if he only has time to write out one of his damn outlines, that still helps more than the notes I get. I hate dons.”

“You hate everything. But have fun, honey! Don’t be out too late—gotta get rested for tomorrow!” Niall calls cheekily.

“Halloween,” Louis smiles knowingly, and offers his hand which Niall immediately smacks.

“Hallowen,” he agrees, grinning.

“Bye, love,” Louis sings, draping a cardigan over his shoulders and grabbing his bag before hopping out the door and closing it happily behind him, finally feeling a little more human.

**

As soon as Louis reaches Harry’s door and is raising his fist to knock, the door swings open.

“Where’ve you been?” Harry demands without hesitation, brows knitted, wearing a purple turtleneck and black trousers that contrast shockingly against his pale, delicate skin.

Louis stares, wide eyed, hand still poised to knock, midair. He notes the affronted rage in Harry’s eyes and something that almost looks wounded or hurt, and Louis actually glances behind him because…surely Harry isn’t acting this way about _him_.

But there’s nobody. And Harry _is_ talking about him.

And….what?

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, feeling a surging roar of guilt crash into his bones. Why did he think food was important? Why did he play video games? How could he have been so rude?? “I was having a terrible day,” he continues, without blinking, staring into Harry’s childlike, wounded eyes that are desperate to throw a tantrum rather than admit any offense, and fuck fuck fuck, he feels so guilty, and he’s really not even sure why at this point, but he thinks, maybe, he could be the most horrible person on the planet. “I went back to my flat because I was hungry. I ate. Are you hungry? I should’ve come and asked if you were hungry. Do you want to eat? I can eat again. I’m sorry. Are you hungry?”

And well, yeah, Louis is rambling like a crazy fuck, and his words don’t even make sense (Louis Tomlinson does _not_ apologize, but for some reason that’s all he ever seems to do to Harry), they’re just spilling out to fill the quiet spaces, and he feels shocked and awkward, is acting awkward, but that look in Harry’s eyes is still there and he’s really, really determined to do whatever it takes to make it go away. Because the most important thing in the world right now is that look and Louis doesn’t know _why_ , he just knows it’s important and it’s shitty and ugly and needs to stop.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry grumbles quietly, but his pout is lessened, seeming more lingering than spirited. He folds his arms over his chest, looking out crossly in the distance, over Louis’ shoulder. “You could’ve texted.”

“I—“ is all Louis manages, because his shock is actually filling his mouth like a gag and he just stares at Harry, very nearly flabbergasted.

Because what?

Like, _what??_

“I didn’t know you read my texts,” Louis blurts, and Harry’s eye snap to him.

“Don’t be stupid. I have a phone, don’t I?”

“But you never respond.”

Harry quiets, before sniffing and looking away. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just come in. It’ll have to be a short lesson today.”

“Why?” Louis asks, following him inside and still feeling very blown apart. Because _what???_

“I have guests arriving in thirty five minutes.”

Guests. Great.

Louis rolls his eyes. “God forbid you cancel.”

“That would be rude. Unlike you, I stick to my engagements,” Harry glares.

Well, shit.

“I’m sorry, Curly.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“But I like it,” Louis protests, stepping towards Harry, who is still folded up like a child and looking everywhere but at Louis.

“Why? It’s silly.”

“Because. You’re curly,” Louis smiles, and dares to reach out and tug at a loose curl of Harry’s.

Harry’s eyes snap to him, his shoulders seize, but he doesn’t step away, instead allowing the tiny endearment, before rolling his eyes and folding his arms tighter, turning his face away once more. He remains silent.

Louis watches him, trying to catch his eye, his smile still present, and it feels soft, not like his usual smug smirks or obnoxious grins. “Besides, I like silly.”

Pause.

“I know you do,” Harry says at last, and his features are relaxed now, his eyes downcast, but there is a very, very light upturn of the lips. And, if only in the most technical sense of the word, Louis thinks it could be classified as a smile. Because each corner of the mouth upturned is a smile, right? Even if it’s only a fraction higher than usual? Still counts.

And Louis feels like he’s won the lottery. Because thank fuck. Maybe Harry doesn’t hate him. Maybe even enjoys tutoring him.

Maybe.

“So,” Louis says, and his smile sounds in his voice.

Harry’s quiet, but the ‘smile’ is still there.

“Let’s make this thirty-five minutes the best yet,” Louis declares, and Harry finally meets his eye.

“All right.”

And they proceed to study.

It’s fun, though. More fun than usual. Maybe because Harry’s high or something. Louis really can’t think of any other explanation; the boy is usually miles away or taking mysterious phone calls or just watching Louis with mild, unamused eyes that look on the verge of darting if he comes too close but today their words come easy and Harry’s voice seems lighter, highlighting the key points in Louis’ notes, and raising his eyebrows whenever he comes across one of Louis’ vicious doodles--he may or may not have a slight tendency to draw the various ways he could murder his teacher on the spot using the available tools provided, such as pens, notebook spirals, and keys.

“I think you may have an unhealthy state of mind, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, milky smooth, eyes flicking over one of the more detailed depictions.

“No, but you should have heard him that day. He didn’t stop for breath once, not once, and he laughed at all of his own jokes. You’d be envisioning choking him with a pencil case as well.”

Harry’s cheek twitches, which Louis has now come to label as ‘Harry’s laugh’ (though it’s far from any actual form of a laugh, but still) and Louis grins, imitating the doodle with the pencil case in his hand for an added touch.

And then Harry makes a noise in his throat that sounds like amusement, and Louis almost comments on it, almost, but Harry doesn’t meet his eye and he can’t do it. He just can’t. Because some fight will probably ensue from it, or Harry will deny it, or, worse still, it might prevent him from every doing it again, so Louis looks down at the pencil case and remains quiet, biting back a grin.

There’s silence, an odd silence, and one glance upward tells Louis that Harry looks noticeably uncomfortable.

And that isn’t right. Louis can’t have that. And, sure, he doesn’t know what’s caused it, but no matter, because Louis just can’t have that. They’re supposed to be progressing.

There’s a pang of silence, with Harry’s eyes blindly skimming over the words of the outline, fiddling with his rings, and Louis keeps his eyes down on the pencil case.

“One time I imagined stuffing him in the rubbish bin and catapulting it out the window.”

And, just like that, Harry’s shoulders loosen and he makes the noise again.

Louis feels like Christmas.

Invigorated, he continues, watching Harry’s face and noting the appearance of the famous dimple as he nibbles his lips, keeping his amusement at bay. “But we should probably stop this conversation before I tell you about my vision with the cat food.”

Harry peers up at him, biting his cheek. “Cat food?”

Louis nods very seriously. “Yes. The cat food. I’ll save it for another day.”

“A rainy day?” Harry offers, smirk faint.

“The rainiest,” Louis agrees, and then, as one, they look back down at the papers before them, Louis biting back another smile, and Harry looking like he doesn’t hate Louis.

The lesson continues, easy and informative, Harry’s movements calm and relaxed, Louis actually remaining attentive.

And then thirty-five minutes have passed. Harry’s phone vibrates.

They both jump, surprised by the sudden shake of the desk, before Harry glances at the screen, his eyes darting across the words.

“They’re on their way,” his voice says, and though it sounds the same on the surface, there’s something a little hollow about it, and Louis doesn’t think he’s just imagining it.

“Oh,” Louis tries to say lightly, but he feels his eyebrows raise in their irritated fashion, and he begins to gather his things. “How fun.”

Harry nods, clearing his throat, sliding the papers towards Louis before standing up. He smooths down the fabric of his turtleneck, hikes up his trousers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. At the party,” Louis says, zipping his pencil inside his pencil case, feeling odd. And repeatedly glancing up at Harry.

He nods. “Study all that,” he adds, adjusting his sleeves. “Report back your findings on Monday. Write down any questions. You know the drill.”

So business-like. So to-the-point.

“Can I write you a list of questions about the lesson and then another list of questions unrelated to the lesson? Like, say, ones about you?” Louis then asks with a small smile, eying Harry as he packs his bag. And he’s not sure why he said that or how he said that, but he plays it off as light and teasing rather than creepy, hoping he didn’t just scare off the timid squirrel before him.

Harry blinks, pausing his fussings and looking over to Louis, brow confused. “Why would you do that?”

And Louis opens his mouth to answer, just as the door swings open, a barrage of bodies and scattered voices filling up the space.

“Harold!” they chorus, beautiful people slowly but steadily swarming towards him, and Harry’s eyes remain on Louis, who sends a smile and a shrug his way, before waving and ducking out before his irritation gets the better of him. Because some auburn haired little rich boy literally just tugged on Harry’s belt without even offering up a greeting and who the fuck does that? And why the fuck does Harry allow it?

So Louis trudges back to his flat, thinking about tomorrow, feeling really fucking weird, and sort of smiling because of Harry Styles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL FOR GIVING ME SONG RECS. Forreal, keep doing it plzzz cuz I've gotten some incredible ones! I'm throwin my hands up in the air. Thank you thank you, darlings! <3 
> 
> Speaking of music. I found another Harry song: "Un Bilo Titled" by Peter Doherty. PREFERABLY the "Acousticalullaby" version, but the album version will work as well. 
> 
> The song I listened to while writing this chapter: "Caring is Creepy" by The Shins. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, beautifuls! I'm just so, so fond of each of you. <3


	19. XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween.

It’s Halloween.

It’s Halloween and Louis’ just woken up to Niall brandishing pumpkin ale into his face.

“Happy Halloween, mate!! Drinks on me!!” Niall’s thundering, his radiant smile invading Louis’ space bubble, pressing cold bottles into his cheeks, and Louis thinks this might be the first time he’s ever actively thought that he’d rather get woken by the piano any day.

“Fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” he rasps as he attempts to orientate himself, registering that it’s morning, it’s Saturday, and Zayn’s party is only a handful of hours away. Zayn’s glorious, costume required, alcohol-is-supplied, very hot and expensive mess party.

Which is really the only reason Niall doesn’t get one of those bottles that he’s brandishing cracked over his head.

“You got your costume all prepared?” the golden ray of annoying fucking sunshine asks, eyes alight as he pops the cap off of one of the beers, before slinging it back effortlessly, swallowing half of its contents without a blink of the eye.

Louis stares, impressed, as he scrubs the sleep away from his eyelashes and crevices, sitting up properly.

“All prepared and ready to go, mate. How about you?” Louis considers for a moment. “What are you gonna be, anyway? You never did get round to telling me.”

Niall grins, setting down the now empty bottle, lips moist. “It’s a surprise.” He wipes his mouth with his Styx t-shirt.

“Well that sounds promising,” Louis concludes flatly, before groaning and flopping out of bed (why must he have energetic flatmates? Why?), pulling on trackies and stretching his arms above his head. “I dare say I’m actually quite excited for tonight though. It’s been awhile since I’ve partied, proper like.”

He waits for Niall’s response as he steps outside of his bedroom and, _oh_.

Damn.

There is a pumpkin patch in their flat.

“We’re carving pumpkins!” Niall suddenly bursts, hopping forward as Rory hauls in yet another huge pumpkin, struggling to set it down in the kitchen. Louis considers helping, wants to help—he loves Rory—but, no. No. Too early to haul pumpkins. So he sits down instead, rubbing his eyes of sleep and resting his feet on the nearest one.

“I’m terrible at making jack-o-lanterns,” Louis yawns, scratching his tufty hair, but he can’t deny the fact that it sounds fun. At least, more fun than his and Niall’s usual Saturdays which consist of watching tellie, eating, hanging about with the lads, and drinking too much. Which, to be honest, gets pretty old after awhile.

“It’s going to be part of our Halloween activities. Got to keep up tradition, don’t we?” Niall boasts, thumping Louis.

Louis glances up at him witheringly. “We never carved pumpkins at my house. So, no. Not a tradition.”

“You what? Never?”

He shakes his head. “Never. Mum didn’t like the smell. Said she hated pumpkin guts.”

Niall stares solidly. “Right. I’m going to have to talk to Jo about that. That’s unacceptable. Don’t you have younger sisters?”

“Five of them,” Louis yawns, and Niall scoffs, outraged.

“No, that’s not gonna work. That’s childhood, Louis, _childhood!”_

“Yeah, yeah.”

Rory hauls in yet another massive pumpkin, his knees noticeably quivering.

The morning light glows through the endless windows lining their flat, and even just the saturation of it feels like autumn. There’s a distinct burnt leaf smell permeating the cool air that escapes past the windows, the students just beyond their walls, the ones milling about and flirting and texting and talking animatedly about their plans for the night, are bundled in thick sweaters and luxurious shades or orange.

Louis’ only been awake for about five minutes, yet this is the most festive he’s felt in years, probably. It’s nice.

“So you treating us to brekkie then?” Louis asks innocently, fluttering his eyelashes up at Niall. “On account of it being Halloween and all.”

“I was thinking sweets for breakfast. Since I don’t get to fuckin’ go trick-or-treating anymore. Load of shite.”

“We probably could, though. What’re they gonna do? Call the police? Start a big investigation?”

He shrugs. “Suppose I feel a bit creepy, though. Who knows, maybe later. We’ll see. Point is, I want sweets for breakfast. So we’re going to the nearest Tesco, loading up, then off to that bakery on Main. Sound good?”

Oh, yes it does. Louis’ usually not a sweets person, but he can make an exception for one day of the year. And he deserves it after the year he’s had.

“Sounds marvelous, Ireland. Take me away.”

“Excellent,” Niall grins, and he places his hands on his hips, looking over to Rory who’s just about to leave  for, presumably, another pumpkin run. “Oi, mate. Come with us to breakfast.”

“Niall, I’ve got another fourteen pumpkins in the back—“

Niall waves his hand dismissively, walking towards his room. “Forget about ‘em. You’re coming, my treat.”

Rory seems more exasperated than thankful as Niall makes to get dressed, and Louis turns around on the couch, draping his arms over the back and grinning.

“You can only eat pumpkin flavored things though, Rory. RIGHT, NIALLER?” he shouts, and a distant “Right-o!” is heard in return.

“Right, of course,” Rory sighs, rolling his eyes, and Louis beams before trotting off towards his own room, stuffing on the first bits of orange clothing he sees, already feeling good about the day and the people in it.

**

It’s afternoon, they’ve been drinking pumpkin ale and hot apple cider spiked with whiskey (at Niall’s insistence—“why the fuck would I drink hot apple wee unless it was doing something for me in return?”), watching scary movies in the background, and have been carving pumpkins nonstop.

Surprisingly, Niall’s actually very good at it, creating little cartoons and silly faces, (though some are genuinely terrifying, and Louis’ already demanded that they’re to be put outside, as they’re deemed ‘unfit’ for the sanctity of their home), and he makes quick work of it too, so their flat is already generously peppered with charming jack-o’-lanterns, candles nestled inside of them and dripping hot, orange and black wax onto the still-moist innards. The faces flicker on their walls, even in the bright hours of the day, and fill the room with delicious, seemingly edible scents that makes the ale slide down smoother and their jumpers feel warmer.

Louis himself tries to create something that _resembles_ a face, he really does, but for the most part he just spears a bunch of holes in the pumpkin’s side, and once in awhile one has a rectangle for a mouth. (“I think I’ll stick to just fetching the pumpkins with Rory next year. Sculpture was never my forte.” “I don’t think this is sculpture, Louis.” “Shut up, Niall, nobody likes a show off.”) Still, he takes pictures of them, sends them to Zayn and Liam, even sends one to Harry—a particularly vicious looking one whose eyes were hacked into angry slits, a large, jagged frown filling up most of its face. He sent it, along with the words, ‘When did you turn into a pumpkin, Curly?’ and he knows he won’t get a response, but he at least knows he’ll see it, and he’d like to think it’ll make him smile and maybe bridge some of the gap that’s still left between them.

It probably won’t, though.

Nevertheless, the carving continues.

Currently, Louis’ completely covered in pumpkin guts, as is the surrounding floor. But that’s mostly attributed to the pumpkin sludge fight that Louis had initiated, after purposely digging out all of the contents of the largest pumpkin, before dumping it all onto Niall’s unsuspecting head.

Chaos ensued. As well as Irish profanities.

But now the guts are crusted to their limbs and the room smells pungent despite the candles, and Louis’ hand is cramping from carving so fucking much, so he settles back and allows Niall to continue while he hums his folk songs and laughs at the particularly gory bits in the scary movies.

And then, well, Louis’ mind wanders. To tonight, mostly. And he wonders if Zayn and Liam are carving pumpkins right now or going on a peaceful fall stroll. Or if they’re still picking out their costumes for the evening.

And he wonders if Harry is with them.

Which, probably not, he’s probably having a Halloween orgy, but Louis would like to think he’s carving pumpkins as well, wrapped in a cozy sweater (probably with something ridiculous like a giant witch’s head on it) and maybe sipping apple cider out of some vintage teacup that is hideously ornate and impractical.

He smiles at the thought. Smiles even wider when he remembers him and Harry’s last encounter, and the fact that, probably, he can call them actual mates now. Because Harry had been in such a good mood, a downright suspiciously good mood…

Which…huh.

Perhaps there was a very specific reason for that.

Why hadn’t Louis thought of it before?

“So, just out of random curiosity, do you ever go to the studio anymore? To record the drum bits for Des’ new single?” Louis suddenly asks, lying in the orange, sticky guts on the floor, and peers over at Niall, an incredibly large pumpkin tucked between his legs, his hands buried deep inside.

“It’s on hold,” he answers, only half paying attention as he stares unblinkingly at the tellie and the family that is getting traumatized by a rabid clown.

“On hold?” Louis prods nonchalantly.

“Yeah. Father wouldn’t tell me why, but I suspect it’s something with Des. Haven’t heard about him in awhile. He hasn’t come to the studio once. Even Grimshaw won’t talk about him. Something’s off. But that’s all I know.”

“Oh,” Louis immediately deflates, hope gone. “You don’t say.”

Well, never mind then. Maybe Harry really _was_ just in a good mood.

….

(Doubtful. There’s always a reason.)

“Why do you ask?” Niall glances over at Louis, who forces himself to snap out of his own thoughts.

“Oh. No reason. Just wondering what’s going on in Harry’s family life. You know. The usual.”

Niall laughs and shakes his head, just as Rory bursts through the door with endless shopping bags filled with candles, Halloween accessories, food, and liquor, and no more is said on the subject as Niall and Louis boisterously cheer his arrival.

**

Evening arrives soon enough, and Louis’ day of pumpkin carving, drinking, and general coziness soon morphs to one of excitement, adrenaline, and shouting, with music blaring through every speaker of their flat as they prepare for the evening ahead.

“What the bloody fuck are you?” Louis laughs hysterically over the pounding beat of La Roux, every light on in the flat, and nearly doubles over, a towel wrapped around his middle as he stares at Niall. He’s just stepped out of the shower.

And he’s a little drunk.

“I’m a milk carton!” Niall guffaws, and yes, he is an actual fucking milk carton, the giant foam structure fitted over his limbs, his sunny little head poking out. It’s large and chunky and accurate, yes, but Louis can’t stop laughing because what the actual fuck?

“Your legs look so skinny!” he cries, pointing to Niall’s wee little stick legs that pop out from the flat bottom of the carton, his knobby knees bouncing together and only serving to make his already too-large white Nikes look even larger.

Niall laughs harder, the song gets louder, the night gets darker, and Louis scrambles to his room before his towel falls off, high on sweets and alcohol, already buzzing about his costume and the pride he bears for it.

Because tonight is going to be incredible, and Louis’ already decided so.

**

“I’m too drunk for this,” Louis giggles, teetering on the stool, as Niall applies his makeup for him.

“So am I,” he laughs, trying his best to concentrate as he delicately paints the glitter over Louis’ eye.

“No you’re not. You carved the shit outta those pumpkins before. I didn’t know you had skills!”

“I can carve, but I can’t draw.”

“Well fuck, Nialler! Now you tell me!” Louis shouts, but burps, then giggles and sways, clutching onto the corners of Niall’s milk carton.

“I’m doing an all right job. The visual aid helps.”

“Google Images saves lives.”

“Aye.”

“Does it even look like a star?”

“It’s a damn good star.”

“Proper glittery?”

“To be honest, Tommo, I’m not even sure how you’re going to survive the night without going blind,” Niall comments, and he smiles at his handiwork as he finishes.

“Perfect,” Louis grins, before inspecting the still-drying glittery star over his right eye. And it looks great, it actually does (either Niall is actually quite skilled or Louis’ just very inebriated), and the lines are straight and perfectly proportioned. So he then squeals, “SUPER PERFECT!” before falling onto Niall and giggling as the foam of his costume bends beneath him.

**

They arrive at Zayn’s rooms around 9.

Louis hasn’t stopped smiling since the pumpkin pie shots him and Niall made at the flat (after they’d gotten ready and had some time to spare), and as they glide across the school grounds, he feels very much like royalty, sauntering forward, arm linked with Niall’s, and even the boxy, awkward bump of Niall’s milk carton crushing into his side doesn’t deter him as they slink their way towards the tower.

Because Louis chose to be ‘glitter’ for Halloween, and it’s the best idea he’s had in years.

His hair’s mussed and fussed in pixie disarray, gold dusting the ends. Glitter coats his limbs and neck and chest, and his shirt and painfully tight trousers are sequined—which is essentially the same thing as glitter. Better still, he and Niall had decided that, in order to capture the proper essence of glitter and its attaches-itself-to-literally-fucking-everything skills, Louis would have to do just that. And so they stopped off at the corner market, purchased a large plastic bucket, all the glitter they had in stock, and proceeded to poor said glitter into said bucket. They call it “Louis’ Stash” and somehow think they’re the cleverest souls in the kingdom.

Louis is throwing handfuls at oblivious passerby, at the sky, at the flowers and the sidewalks, and Niall can’t stop laughing, and Louis can’t stop throwing.

“Stop!” Niall snorts hysterically as they climb the stairs to Zayn’s rooms, but that only makes Louis throw bigger handfuls. “You’ll run out!” he insists, but Louis doesn’t hear him, and, finally, they arrive at the top, Niall’s sunflower hair saturated in soft clumps of rainbow glitter that flecks to the ground with his every move, some sticking to his milk carton.

“Laddy lads!” Louis immediately exclaims as he pushes the door open, and tosses a handful of glitter upon entry.

Liam, oblivious as to what’s happening or why there’s now a pile of glitter on the floor, still smiles animatedly, thrilled by everything Louis does.

“That’s brilliant!” he explains, and he’s a pirate, dressed all in black and leather, but he looks more like a superhero with his broad chest and tight trousers, bar the eye patch.

Zayn’s beside him, smoking a cigar, and is effortlessly chic in a ‘20’s gangster suit, a terrifyingly realistic machine gun in his hand. “I’m Al Capone,” he smiles, and offers a cigar to Niall, then to Louis, grinning with what could only be a lot of martinis.

Harry’s not there of course, but Louis doesn’t really notice, not when he’s illuminated in the light and Liam and Zayn fall into hysterics over Niall’s costume, which they only just register.

“He’s a bloody milk carton!” Liam exclaims, tearing at the eyes

Niall stands proud.

“What are you, Louis? The sky?”

“I’m glitter!” Louis exclaims, blowing a small handful into the air.

“Can I have some?” Zayn asks, and yeah, he’s drunk, but Louis is endeared by it as he dumps a pinchful into Zayn’s awaiting pocket, his smile widened in excitement.

“Are you ready for the night, lads?” Louis shouts as Liam pours Zayn another glass of wine, eyes still shining from his hysterical laughter.

“I’m readyyy,” Niall sings, clapping his hands in time, and Liam hands out wine glasses to the others.

“A toast!” he declares as the four boys gather into a tiny circle. “For the best Halloween ever!”

“Here, here!” Louis roars over exaggeratedly, and they laugh as they tip back their glasses, the liquid sliding smoothly down their already numb throats.

Then the door opens.

And in glides Harry.

“I’m here so we can go now,” he greets, smug and smirky, eyes calm and assessing as he takes in each costume.

“Oh, can we? How fortunate,” Louis says with a roll of his eyes, but his smile is permanent and he’s clutching his empty wine glass, and Harry’s wearing black velvet and heeled shoes, looking like something out of Dracula, so it’s all good.

Harry barely registers his sass as he saunters towards the group, half-smile present.

“Zayn, you look perfect,” he purrs, pecking Zayn’s lips, then glides to Liam. “You look like you’re going to get hot in that, love.” He slides a finger over Liam’s eye patch, then steps in front of Louis. “You look messy,” is all he says (rude), and then he freezes upon seeing Niall, standing expectantly in his ridiculous attire, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I…don’t even know what to say,” he finally concludes, and that gets everybody started up again.

“What are you, then?” Louis asks, eyeing up Harry’s ensemble (it’s got to be some late 19th century, Victorian garb, complete with a crimson scarf, cane, and green carnation pinned to his lapel). His hair is extra curled and luxurious, piled high on his head, and Louis could almost swear that he’s wearing mascara, maybe eyeliner? And lippie, actually. But then again, he’s never really sure with Harry, since the gene pool has a tendency to kiss his ass.

“You’re a vampire!” Liam guesses, and Zayn snorts, bringing a hand up to hide his bemused smile, watching the horror splat across Harry’s face.

“I’m _Dorian Gray_ ,” he says, as if their lack of recognition is the most offensive thing in the world, and he turns his head away and lifts his chin with an air of being very wronged, his cane posed perfectly in his hand.

“Oscar Wilde’s book?” Louis supplies, happy to reference his learned knowledge from their tutoring. Because “The Picture of Dorian Gray” is Harry’s favorite novel, written by the man himself, and Louis is all too familiar with hearing its praises sung. It only pangs him a little bit that Harry would identify with that character, of all people. Couldn’t he have just been a bunny or something?

But, no matter. It’s Halloween, and it’s happy, and everybody looks incredible.

Harry turns to look at him.

“Exactly,” he says calmly, and it could be Louis’ imagination, but he thinks he almost detects a hint of pride.

“Jesus Christ,” Niall rolls his eyes. “Of course you’re from a fuckin’ book.”

“Not just any book!” Harry protests, scowling.

Zayn smiles quietly, bringing his hand up to rest lightly on Liam’s back. “It’s a brilliant book, Harry. But we best be off, yeah? I’m late for me own party.”

“Well that’s the only way to arrive, isn’t it?” Louis grins.

And they take off in a flurry of glitter and clicking heels and crisp fabrics rubbing together, smelling of hair product and cheap makeup, and the night seems to bow a little for them.

**

It’s the first time they don’t take the antique car—Louis having successfully convinced Zayn to put it in storage for the winter months and put a more practical, _insulated_ car to use—but it’s surprisingly pleasant outside, cool enough to prickle the skin, but warm enough to be comfortable without a jacket if running about. Which makes Louis sort of wish they were piling into the old thing, breezing down the roads with the chill licking their smiles.

But the limo—yes, the limo—suffices, and more rounds of pumpkin wine are poured, spilling over the tops of glasses and splashing onto hands, but they only laugh in response.

“Let’s go trick or treating, Niall! I’m ready!” Louis shouts enthusiastically, and Zayn just shakes his head with a smile as Liam practically squeals, Niall laughs as he agrees, while Harry raises a mild brow.

“I don’t like sweets,” he drawls.

“So more for me!” Louis beams, before Niall pinches his arm.

“You’re sharing, mate.”

“Don’t I always?”

And Niall bowls Louis over in his seat as he surges forward, the milk carton taking up half the car, and, as is custom for this night Louis is beginning to realize, laughter is the only response as the rounds are poured and the glasses clink.

**

“Holy shit,” Louis blurts, upon entering the hotel hall.

It’s magnificent, naturally, with its vaulted black ceilings and fading purple lights. Cobwebs scatter the doorways, corners, and drape over every surface, Louis having to duck to avoid them catching in his glittery hair as he enters. Black and orange streamers—or are those strips of satin?—hang in endless tendrils, tickling the guests as they pass around in swarms, outstretched hands brushing against the ends. There’s a large punch bowl sat in the middle of the hall, purple, sinister, and glowing, surrounded by endless rows of crystal teacups, and waiters dressed as scantily clad mummies sashay around with ornate, rusty trays holding various suspicious looking shots containing bobbing eyeballs, richly decorated petite fours, spidery cupcakes, severed hands, and rubber insects.

It’s absolutely fucking awesome.

“Holy shit,” Louis repeats, and he looks over to Zayn who is smiling at him, gauging his reaction.

“Do you like it, Louis?” he asks, and Liam stares as well, his arms wrapped around Zayn’s waist.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Zayn!” Louis teases, and the boys erupt into grins.

“Zayn Malik! He’s here!” a girl then suddenly shouts, and a tidal wave of bodies come rushing at them, pushing Louis out of the way as they all cluck and chatter, gushing over Zayn’s party hosting skills and elaborate décor.

“Right, then,” Louis shouts, catching sight of Niall who is having trouble balancing his boxy body. “Let’s get out the fuck out of this mess.” He grabs Niall by the milk carton and trudges him out of harm’s way, only briefly glancing back to see Zayn and Liam swallowed whole, and then Harry, his charming grin in place, his hand already resting on a boy’s elbow invitingly.

But Louis just shakes his head of the thought and drags Niall to the punchbowl.

**

There’s an orchestra at the party that plays eery violin music for approximately two hours, and it really sets the mood, providing class and adequate Halloween chill for the evening.

During this time, the guests mingle and chat, clinking glasses and snapping pictures of each other’s costumes on their phones, praising each other on a job well done.

Louis lingers around the punch with Niall, judging every costume that passes by (except the Spiderman one—that was sick).

“I don’t understand why she even bothered wearing the skirt. She could’ve saved herself some money and just worn the corset,” Louis says as he sips his punch, and Niall laughs amidst receiving yet another passerby’s compliment on his getup.

Niall’s gotten fourteen compliments since they’ve been there, and Louis’ gotten nineteen. Not that he’s counting. But, if he were, Louis would totally be winning.

At last, Zayn, Liam, and even Harry emerge from the masses, smiles still in place, and drinks in hand.

“Well, that was fun,” Liam grins, his white teeth glowing under the black lights.

Harry brings his drink to his lips, surveying the crowd.

Louis tries not to watch him.

“Would you like to dance?” Zayn suddenly asks Liam. “The orchestra’s about to leave and I doubt there’ll be any more slow songs after they pack up.”

Everybody stares, surprised, and that is exactly how they know how drunk Zayn is. Because he insists he never dances, and often turns sickly colored at the mention of it. And yet here he is.

“Well you two have fun,” Louis smiles, clapping them both on the back as Liam, wide, elated eyes, is ushered onto the dance floor by a smiling Zayn.

Zayn waves at him idly, now being dragged by a very eager Liam onto the dance floor, and the remaining boys laugh—well, Harry smirks—at the spectacle, before they refill their glasses with punch.

“Happy Hallow’s Eve, lads,” Louis announces. “Nialler,” he nods, clinking his glass with his. Then, “Curly,” he says, and his eyes linger on Harry as their cups meet, Harry regarding him, face void of expression. Which isn’t unusual but, really? He could at least nod or something.

They drink as one, Niall taking it back like a shot, while Harry sips delicately.

“Tonight’s gonna be incredible,” Niall grins, setting down his cup, nodding at a beautiful blonde dressed as a butterfly who’s giving him the eye.

“I love Halloween,” Louis muses, still taking in his surroundings.

“What’s not to love?” Harry rumbles, voice syrupy and thick. “A night where you get to pretend to be somebody else? It’s perfection.”

“It’s funny that you chose Dorian Gray of all people, though,” Louis says, watching Harry’s eyes flick over the crowd. “Bit of a tragic ending, wasn’t it?”

Harry shrugs as Niall and the butterfly begin to engage in the first stages of a mating ritual. “Depends on your definition of tragic.”

Right.

“You better not be all sad and poetic tonight, Curly. I mean it—it’s Halloween, we’ve all the time in the world, and I glitter, for fuck’s sake. So no moping ‘round, you hear?” Louis demands, thrusting his finger in Harry’s face.

He raises his eyebrows, avoids Louis’ finger, and purrs out an, “Of course,” but it doesn’t feel very genuine, doesn’t feel like Harry’s even totally listening, but he at least smirks with amusement as he regards Louis, swinging his cane. “You’re very bossy, you know.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like bossy people.”

“Neither do I,” Louis agrees, and flicks a bit of glitter at a boy wearing a toga.

“Do you like yourself?”

Louis catches Harry’s eye, his smile wide. “I _love_ myself.” And he flicks more glitter.

Harry rolls his eyes, his smooth, velvet-clad, ebony shoulders thick and luxurious under the dim purple and black lights, emphasizing his paleness, giving darker depths to his bruised shadows. “You know, I think we’re done with having you around. Zayn said so. He’s too polite to tell you, so I am. You were fun while you lasted. Good luck with all  of your endeavors.”

Louis’ smile reforms as he sprinkles glitter in Harry’s hair, making him wince and fumble backwards. “That’s odd, because he’s already invited me to luncheon tomorrow!”

Harry splutters as glitter catches on his lips, clings to the velvet of his blazer. “Is that so,” he manages flatly, shooting a withering glance towards Louis as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Indeed. You’re gonna have to do better than that. It takes a lot more to get rid of me.” And with a delighted little smirk, Louis smacks him in the balls.

Harry doubles over, one hand clutching the affected area, the other gripping onto the punchbowl table for support.

“You’re a fucking barbarian,” he wheezes through clenched teeth and red-rimmed eyes. “I’m never tutoring you again.”

“I am what I am, babycakes,” Louis smiles, before patting him on the back. “And think of it this way—no matter what happens tonight, you’re still going to feel better physically than you do right now!”

And Harry’s about to respond, still half-doubled over and now swatting at Louis, who jumps away in delight, when suddenly music bursts through the speakers, and Zayn and Liam rush up to them.

“That was so romantic! Did you see us?? Did you take photos? Or a video, did you take a video?” Liam demands as Zayn goes to Harry’s side, asking him what’s wrong, which Louis can only laugh at.

“I’m sorry, Li, I didn’t. But it doesn’t matter because we have our memories. Now, let’s do shots and dance until we’re dead!” Louis sings, shooting his arms upward in a frenzy of glitter and strobe lights, and the boys cheer, Niall rejoining them, butterfly in tow, and Harry shakes his head but follows them all the same, finally able to stand.

**

The rest of the night is brightly colored and dark at the same time, tastes like pumpkin vodka, smells like new car and cologne, and feels like hot summer nights.

Louis bounces around to every song that blasts over the stereo, throwing glitter into Niall’s drinks whenever he’s not looking (and Harry actually fucking laughs about it at one point, but he’s drunk so Louis isn’t sure if that counts) and takes endless pictures of himself because, well, he looks spectacular.

At one point Louis catches onto the fact that Harry keeps whipping out a quill pen, scribbling onto bits of napkin and paper and sliding them stealthily into others’ pockets. He slides one into Zayn’s tailored trousers while he’s busy chatting to a group of foaming girls, and Louis almost says something, but doesn’t, just as a familiar beat begins to spread over the hall.

The most ridiculous song in the world plays and, though in the sober light of day Louis would stick his nose up at such tunes, drunk, nighttime Louis shout-sings, _“She’s up all night ‘till the sun, I’m up all night to get some, she’s up all for good fun, I’m up all night to get lucky!”_ while dancing on Niall, fists pumping into the air.

They sing along, the five lads—even Harry who is surprisingly harpie-less, flourishing his hands up in the air like a princess and giggling incessantly—and dance in a circle that consists of nobody else in the world, laughing as they screech the lyrics.

_“We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night to get lucky!”_

They’re bouncing into each other, they’re laughing, it’s loud, and they’re drunk as they sing, sing, sing.

_“We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night…”_

And it’s ridiculous, and fun, and loud, and exhausting, and probably embarrassing but they just can’t give a fuck, Niall gyrating in his milk carton, Liam pretending to have a peg leg, Zayn (having finally snuck his gun back from Niall who had been holding it hostage, running around and pretending to shoot people) thrusting his gun into the air rhythmically, drunk as the time he vomited on Louis’ slippers.

It’s good. Really good.

Harry even stays with them, ignoring the hoards of cling-ons that press sweat sheened mouths against his waistcoat and shoulder blades, so eventually they leave, realizing they aren’t going to get anything.

It makes Louis smile wider as he sings, tossing glitter into the air and swallowing most of it through his laughter, and the beat presses on, swirling their bloodstreams and brightening the shots.

_“We’re up all night for good fun! We’re up all night to get lucky…”_

**

“I’m going to grab a drink!” Louis shouts to Niall (who is now currently very occupied with two pretty brunettes dressed as kittens, the butterfly long gone) before he plunders forward, saluting Liam and Zayn as he passes them, and makes his way to the punchbowl.

It’s a great night. He’s gotten hit on endlessly by wolves, firemen, wizards, and even the Incredible Hulk, thrown almost all of his glitter, taken incredible photos, and even successfully persuaded the DJ to play “Get Lucky” on a loop for twenty minutes, much to the surprising delight of all the guests.

Louis regards the night as a complete success.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, tripping over an alien, and finally, finally reaches the punch bowl, surveying the table for a stray bottle of water. He finds one (praise Jesus) and slings it back, gulping it down in one go, and when he comes back for air, his eyes are watering and his chin drips, but he feels hydrated at last, and his bones feel a bit firmer.

He’s about to turn back, throw himself into the chaos once more—Zayn is fake-shooting a group of footballers with his machine gun and Louis cannot miss that—when he suddenly sees a slender figure silhouetted in the entrance, framed by the night sky, solitary and unmoving. And suddenly Louis can’t move because where did Harry go? And is that him?

Without thought, his feet begin to move forward, carrying him towards the lone figure, and Louis’ drunk enough to rationalize that they’re as good as mates now, that it won’t be weird when he approaches him, won’t be too much too soon, or awkward. He’s approached him before, after all.  Countless times. Nothing new.

“There he is,” Louis sings drunkenly upon discovering that it is indeed Harry, and he slumps against the doorway as Harry stares up into the sky.

He doesn’t make any movement to suggest he’s even aware of Louis’ presence, instead clutching his tiny, crystal glass of punch in both hands, feet together, the frills of his costume sagging in the moonlight.

“Whatcha doing?” Louis finally asks, waiting for Harry to look at him.

No response, just a languid blink.

“Whatcha looking at?” Louis tries again, flicking his hair out of his eyes and sending speckles of glitter to fall on Harry’s soft, velvet blazer that blends with the sky that swallows him.

“The sky.”

Well. Progress.

Louis sighs, head swimming a bit, struggling to remember if it was this hard to talk to Harry earlier. He doesn’t think it was.

Still, there’s a peaceful silence between them, filled by an outside breeze and some broken sentences as people pass in and out the door, and Harry’s eyes remain upward and Louis’ eyes remain on Harry.

“What have you been writing? On those bits of paper you’ve been stuffing into everybody’s pockets? I saw you give one to Zayn. Don’t think he noticed, though,” Louis says, voice slurred, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the boy before him, who he now sees is wearing cat ears, almost buried beneath his curls, and large smears of black, shimmering makeup smudged over each eye. It’s sort of beautiful, but sort of not, and Louis’ too drunk to think about it anymore than that.

“Quotes,” Harry replies, lips poised to the heavens.

“Oscar Wilde quotes?”

“Dorian Gray quotes.”

“Oh,” Louis says, playing with the glitter in his bucket. “Same thing, really, isn’t it? But. That’s clever.”

Harry shrugs.

“Do they mean anything? Or they just selected at random, then?” Louis asks, trying to stifle a burp and remain collected, as the alcohol swims through his bloodstream, bubbles his stomach, and steers his vision. He’s trying to be serious, trying to act sober. Because maybe Harry needs to talk once in awhile.

But all he says is, “Yes. I’ve chosen each specifically,” and he leaves it at that, his lips pressing into a line.

Clouds drift over the moon. It’s very fitting for the holiday.

“I think I’ve gotten glitter all over your skin,” Louis notes, taking in the shimmering surfaces of Harry’s flesh under the pale blue light.

Harry shrugs again, this time sipping his punch.

Louis shifts, feeling at odds with the situation—and he really just wants to have fun right now, not deal with the utter tornadic complexity that is his and Harry’s friendship but at the same time he feels torn—and he cocks his head, trying to catch sight of Harry’s full face rather than his profile.

“Are you having fun?” he asks as a last attempt.

Slowly, Harry turns to face Louis, a grimaced smile tattooed on his lips.

Louis’ heart drops.

Well, shit. Back to this.

But it’s not as dramatic as Louis anticipates it to be, the air quiet and calm, Harry’s eyes shadowed and unseen, and he merely turns his back and becomes part of the crowd in one effortless, quiet movement, never answering Louis.

And Louis’ really drunk still and life still seems fun and Harry Styles still seems like a distant problem, so he buries any discomfort that threatens to erupt, instead surging back inside and following the sight of the dancing milk carton.

**

It’s an ungodly hour when they’re driven back to the school by Zayn’s chauffer, and it’s the first time Harry’s gone home with them—and he isn’t even accompanied by a cling-on, which Louis would marvel at even more if he still wasn’t so damn drunk.

They pile out of the vehicle, reeking of sweat and stale alcohol, their sticky skin shivering in the cool night air. Sleep has begun to lick at their limbs, their voices quieter and their movements slower; even Liam remains silent, resting his cheek on Zayn’s shoulder, who is glassy eyed and blinking very, very slowly.

“I’m going home, mates,” Niall announces as soon as his feet have hit the school grounds. “I need to take this fuckin’ thing off. And shower. And sleep.” And without a second glance back, Niall takes off, solo.

And Louis would normally be furious—once again, Niall is carelessly abandoning him—but he’s still pleasantly swimming with alcohol and the sky is alluring, so he sways on the spot and waves farewell at Niall’s retreating figure, milk carton bobbing gently up and down.

“I’m actually quite tired as well,” Liam notes, eyes droopy and sunken, his eye patch dangling around his neck, and he looks to Zayn, his hand clutching his.

Zayn nods, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. Let’s go, Liam.” He nods goodbye to Harry, who is twirling his cane and moseying along the edge of the sidewalk leading toward the gardens.

There’s this awkward moment where Louis hasn’t said anything, hasn’t chipped in and said he’s also ready to retire for the night, and the crucial point of decision is almost at hand. He stands there, literally caught between the two parties, and he knows he should go to bed, should sleep off this night that’s left him simultaneously drained and invigorated, but his limbs are jolting with just enough borrowed energy that he wants to stay awake, wants to wander the world.

Liam’s looking at him curiously and Zayn keeps glancing between him and Harry—who is already beginning to wander almost out of sight, eyes to the sky.

“I’m gonna stay, lads. You go,” Louis hears himself saying, and he doesn’t miss the small smile that flashes briefly over Zayn’s features.

“All right, then. Goodnight Louis,” Zayn murmurs.

“G’night,” Liam adds as an afterthought, yawning and stumbling after Zayn, who pulls him along gently.

Louis waves, smiling dopily, before he sets his sights on the figure that mixes with the darkness, winding his way down the garden path.

This is probably a foolish idea, to be honest. A very drunk Louis following a potentially not-that-drunk Harry; the recipe is one of pure disaster and bickering, and maybe yet another setback for them (will Louis ever get anywhere with this boy? Is it possible to be actual friends with Harry Styles?) but he’s not thinking right, the need to talk and be entertained at the forefront of his mind, so he jogs ahead without another thought, until he reaches Harry.

Harry, who continues gliding toward the gardens, seeming to head for the center, where the rose bushes lie in clusters and the ivy wraps around the ancient stone benches that encircle them. He glances sideways at Louis.

“What are you doing?”

“Following you,” Louis says simply, tongue loose. “Where are we going?”

“Shouldn’t you be going to bed?” And his tone is almost irritated, but Louis would like to think of it as curious.

“Nah. ‘M not tired. The night is young, Curly, and it’s Halloween, and I’m glitter—did I tell you I’m glitter?—and it’s so beautiful outside, so, so beautiful, that I felt it important to stay.” Talking is fun when Louis is drunk. Even more fun than usual. “You tutor me proper now, so we’re mates. And we got on the other day. Remember that? When we got on?” He hiccups, small and tiny.

Harry’s face is neutral as he continues walking in lazy strides, cane clicking on the cobblestoned path. “That was yesterday.”

“Yeah! We got on yesterday, Curly, so we’re as good as mates now, I reckon.”

“Oh? You reckon?”

“Yeah,” Louis says simply, and they walk onward.

Harry’s breath mists, swirling into the air and evaporating. Louis tries to make his own do the same, but it won’t. And that doesn’t make sense, does it? He was never good at science.

But before he can ponder it any more, he remembers the bucket of glitter in his hand. And his drunken mind finds that very important and very exciting.

“I forgot I had this!” he exclaims loudly, thrusting it into the air.

Harry glances at it but says nothing.

Then Louis gets the brilliant idea of sprinkling a trail of glitter behind them as they walk, because everything is fun and everything is an adventure and why the hell _wouldn’t_ he leave a trail of glitter?

“Look, it’s like Hansel and Gretel!” he exclaims, pointing toward his doings, and he finds himself to be very clever, his cheeks warm and his hair beginning to fall into his eyes.

And out of all the things Louis’ said that night, that’s the last thing he expects to cause Harry to smile.

“It is,” he says, actually stopping and examining Louis’ work. He moves forward. “Here, let me have some,” he says, smile still present, little laughs escaping him. “We’ll make another trail. But a very complex one.” He begins to sprinkle the glitter in twirls, making figure eights and circling around rose bushes, and Louis can’t help but stare with his mouth agape because, well, maybe Harry is drunker than he thought?

Or maybe Harry is a giant child. Either way, Louis can’t look away and he can’t stop the smile splitting his face.

He watches Harry making intricate patterns, using the last of the glitter. “Are you making it so we can never be found?” Louis laughs, and the bucket dangles from his slack fingers.

Harry’s smile falters immediately as he sprinkles the last of his handful.

“Something like that.” He brushes his hands off on his trousers, and just like that, he’s back to his stoic poetry. “You can be found, if you like. But I don’t want to be.”

Louis falls silent, staring at him, and he doesn’t really know what to say. The issues at hand feel too big, too important for Louis to even begin to tackle in this state, especially while he’s dressed in sequins and sweating sparkles.

They continue to walk until they reach the roses. And then, without transition, Harry flops onto the ground, stretches out, and lies splayed amongst the dying grass and fallen leaves, the faded roses clustered near his head.

“Just lying in the garden, are we?” Louis asks, and stumbles as he makes to lie beside Harry, a safe distance away.

“Don’t talk,” Harry says quietly, and his eyes are glued above him, glassy, quiet, and sad.

Louis obeys.

They lie there in silence, their quiet breaths mingling with the breeze, and it’s really fucking cold, but Louis’ cheeks still feel warm from the alcohol, so he doesn’t complain, just listens to Harry breathing and sneaks glances at his unmoving profile, shrouded in muted light and prism-less shadows.

And then Louis talks.

“I can’t see any stars. Can’t even see the moon,” he mumbles, and maybe the roses are blocking his view.

“ _’Put out the torches. Hide the moon. Hide the stars_ ,’” Harry breathes and Louis closes his eyes at his whispered voice.

“I like that,” he says quietly, and he thinks he may be beginning to feel his drunkenness slowly begin to slip away.

Harry doesn’t respond. The cat ears are still on his head, tangled in his unruly curls, and his cheekbones look sharp and hollow. He looks like Halloween.

“You should go back,” Harry’s voice suddenly says, and its softness splits the air.

But Louis doesn’t move.

And Harry doesn’t say it again.

He feels like Harry’s right, feels like he actually really should just leave right now, but can’t, his limbs heavy and his adrenaline and excitement finally ebbing away and only leaving room for exhaustion.

Louis’ eyelids begin to droop, his head nestled in dead leaves and wilted flower petals, and the air is cool, smooth, cozy. And the alcohol drags his limbs and lulls his brain, and he thinks maybe he can hear Harry’s heartbeat, thudding in time to Louis’ own.

He remains that way for awhile, his eyelids drooping lazily as his body prepares for sleep, and they lie for minutes, maybe hours? It must be a long time because the sun is now beginning to peak above the horizon, catching on the remnants of glitter that still stick to their skin.

Louis’ about to fall asleep, he is, but before he does, he feels his own lingering, drunken smile form.

The air is still.

A lone bird chirps faintly in the distance.

Harry’s breathing, calmly and quietly.

“ _We’re up all night till the sun,”_ Louis sings, chuckling to himself, the words slurred and forcing themselves through Louis’ slack lips, but he continues, eyes shutting, his drunken haze humming pleasantly enough to assure him that this is a good idea. Because the lyrics fit the moment, they _fit_ , and yes, he definitely feels like the cleverest knife in the block.

And as Louis sings, “ _We’re up all night to get some,_ ” he thinks he hears a faint, baritone voice singing quietly along.

_“We’re up all night for good fun. We’re up all night to get lucky.”_

Harry’s voice, low and raspy, slides against Louis’, light and tinkling, and it’s so, so ridiculous, but such a perfect conclusion to their night, and, as Louis’ eyes drift shut for the last time, lyrics still slipping through his lips, he feels his smile, accompanied by the first slivers of sunlight ghosting across his skin.

**

He awakens as he expected he would—alone.

Harry’s nowhere in sight. But that’s probably for the best, because Louis feels vile and has more distressing matters on his mind.

His clothes are damp, as is his skin, nestled in the dew drenched grass, and the sun is alarmingly bright, burning his retinas and frying his very, very dry brain and throat.

And fuck shit ass.

Why was falling asleep outside a good idea?

He forces his creaky limbs off of the ground, bones clicking, and swipes a hand over his sleep-creased face as he begins to stumble toward the direction of his flat, bucket still in tow, speckles of glitter wet and sticking to the sides of it.

Feeling impossibly cold—is he dying? He might be—Louis sticks his free hand deep in his pocket, hoping to sponge at least some warmth—

And what?

He stops, feeling his fingers brush against a small slip of paper. Curious and confused, he extracts the bit, unfolding its creases and immediately recognizing the handwriting.

_“I knew nothing but shadows and I thought them to be real.”_

Louis stares at the words, tiny and hastily scrawled. They rest in his palm, lying quietly and unassumingly.

Harry. Dorian Gray. The quotes.

How had he not felt him slip this in his pocket at the party?

How hadn’t he realized it was there?

Physically, Louis feels like complete shit right now—hungover and frozen and damp and thirsty. But he sees Harry’s words and, quote be damned, they strike true, too true, and Louis’ barely awoken heart pangs in frustration.

Because they hit home, so, _so_ much.

He hears their conversation from the previous night, echoed in his brain.

_Do they mean anything? Or they just selected at random, then?_

_Yes. I’ve chosen them specifically._

And shit.

He knows he can’t stitch every wound. He knows that, no matter what, Harry is going to be damaged and troubled and dealing with goldmines of unseen shit in his life.

And yet.

He promised Zayn he’d be there for Harry.

Hell, he basically already promised himself that he’d look after Harry far before his talk with Zayn.

And it’s the little shit like this—the quiet, little shit that gets brushed aside because it seems unessential or frivolous—that Louis can’t ignore, not when he’s fully capable of not ignoring it, and it sits unpleasantly in his stomach.

Or maybe that’s just his hangover, who knows.

In any case, instead of seeking the sanctuary of his flat, Louis makes a decision. He tears a bit of paper off of one of the bulletin boards in the halls, Googles “Dorian Gray quotes” on his phone, and scrolls his too-bright screen until he finds the perfect one—literally perfect.

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

And if that doesn’t scream Harry, then he doesn’t know what does.

Automatically he grabs a pen off of the closed shop counter, scribbles down the sentence in his most legible script, and without wasting another moment, sets off in the direction of Harry’s rooms, ignoring his urge to wee and the headache that pounds in time with his footsteps.

His travel time is good though, he makes it their fairly swiftly considering his sore back, and he slides the bit of paper under Harry’s door, hoping it won’t get lost or trampled into oblivion.

Mission accomplished (and bed calling his name), Louis once again sets out towards his flat, feeling good about himself and the situation at hand.

Because at least he did something. And it was something selfless. And, who knows, it might even strike Harry in some way.

It’s only after he’s safely entered his flat, tiptoed past a passed out Niall on the couch (his body sprawled and drooling, empty sweets wrappers littering his naked stomach), and locked himself in the warm solitude of his room, that his other hand slides into his other pocket, and another crumpled paper is found.

He sits up, unfolding it in the streams of sunlight that pour through his window, his vision blurring with exhaustion and general physical misery.

_“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”_

And bam.

The words go straight to Louis’ chest.

One tiny scrap of paper. Twenty-one words. Found by chance. He could’ve easily never discovered this, could’ve easily lived the rest of his day in blissful ignorance. But bam, he found it, bam, he read it, and bam, just like that, the words bowl him over. They’re corrupt, they’re twisted, they’re written with a wry, humorless laugh, and all Louis can see is a boy who interprets his kindness as a means of fascination rather than a kinship.

Because Harry chose this quote specifically for Louis.

And this…is how he thinks Louis views him.

Which…fuck.

Really?

_Really?_

So Louis stares, just stares, continues to stare, until the sun is set high in the sky, and he can hear Niall fumbling to wakefulness, the paper crumpled in his palm, bathed in midday light, and bam.

Louis feels like shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, there are two songs that inspired this whole chapter. The first half is inspired by Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" which...is funny. I envisioned the party scene, so I wrote it. The same happened with the second part. But that's inspired by Florence & the Machine's "Cosmic Love." So I just wrote that vision down as well. (listen to that song, forreal, omg)
> 
> And HEY THANKS OMG you guys are the best! I'm enjoying talking to you so, so much! Your song recs are gorgeous! Keep it up! Stop by my tumblr for more chatting (mizzwilde) because you're all lovelyyyy. Forreal. You've each made me smile. :)
> 
> ALSO. I don't know if I will ever do that whole "cover art" thing for this fic (I'm a lazy, lazy girl) buuuut I found the perfect picture for it. It's in my inspiration tag, and it's Harry's torso and legs, when he was wearing his heart shirt with that suit at the This Is Us premiere. I'm in love with that photo. So, if this fic had a book cover, that would be it. 
> 
> <3


	20. XIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis talks.

Niall may be one of the most oblivious people in the entire world. He may be a bit self-centered and indulgent. He may be careless and frivolous and crass and exhausting.

But he gives damn good advice.

 The day after Halloween, amongst several trips to the toilet where Louis proceeded to vomit up his intestines—he’s never drinking purple, glowing punch again and he’s going to have Zayn arrested, the fucker—Louis had spent the day moaning and groaning on the floor, partly because he was dying, partly because Harry had, once again, fucked with his mind when he’d finally begun to think they were obtaining some sense of normalcy.

“Why are you so obsessed with this bloke? You barely even fuckin’ know him,” Niall burps, rummaging in the fridge and wearing hot pink boxers. “You want to fuck him, don’t you.”

“My lord, Ireland, where did you get your manners from??” Louis exclaims, actually managing to lift his head from the floor to throw him an incredulous look. “And no, I don’t. To be honest, I’m surprised none of you lot are more concerned about the kid. He’s an absolute mess.”

“I dunno, he seems a bit better than usual lately.” Niall rips a bag of crisps open with his teeth.

“I thought so, too. Until I found these this morning.” Louis thrusts the tiny, scribbled quotes in Niall’s direction.

“The fuck?” he asks inquisitively, walking over to Louis’ sprawled figure on the floor, before plucking the papers out of his hands. He reads, his eyes squinted. Then he looks back down to Louis, large bags under his bright eyes, a bit of glitter stuck to his cheek. “I don’t get it.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Do those quotes sound positive to you? Do they? Because they certainly don’t to me. And, yeah, I’m not quite sure what he means exactly—you never know with that tit—but I _think_ it means that this whole fucking time he’s not gotten any better, and he doesn’t trust me any more than he did before and he’s still fucked up and Des is still missing and—“

“Des is missing?” Niall asks suddenly, eyes widening.

Well shit.

“Er.”

“Nah, yeah, that would explain why the track’s on hold. Where is he then? On a bender?” And his tone is simple, curious, inquiring, and Louis is taken aback.

What affects Niall so _little_ has been incessantly plaguing Louis for _weeks_.

“Well—I’m not sure, actually. Harry doesn’t talk about that sort of thing. At least not with me.” Louis quiets, feeling inexplicably unsettled as Niall pops crisps into his mouth, flopping onto the couch. “I don’t know to do,” he says quietly. “I’m out of ideas. How do I prove that I’ve not got bad intentions? That I’m not just, like, using him or taking the piss out of him or anything? Like, show him that I’ve got no agenda or anything?”

“I think you’re looking too deeply into two scraps of paper, if I’m being honest.”

“I am not!” Louis screeches, and his throat hurts, but he doesn’t care, glaring viciously. “He said he chose them purposely, Niall. PURPOSELY. And now I don’t know what to do about it because everything’s all wrong again when I thought that I was FINALLY getting somewhere!”

Niall sighs, loud and exaggerated, and he sets his crisp bag down as he looks over to Louis, tired and thoroughly uncomplicated. “Louis. Look at me. Stop thinking so much, all right, mate? You make all these fuckin’ plans, and not once have they gone right. Just be yourself. It’s literally that simple. The more you try to act a certain way or try to pull stupid shite, the more Harry’s gonna pick up on it and suspect your motives even more. Be your goddamn self, Tommo. It’s gotten you this far.” And then he’s back to eating and staring at his laptop.

And, okay. Yeah. Maybe that makes some sense.

**

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing changes between Harry and Louis in the weeks that follow Halloween.

Nothing positive, anyway.

See, naively, Louis had thought that, maybe, after that very peaceful and—dare he say— _enjoyable_ tutoring session the day before Halloween, that things would have picked up between the two of them.

False.

Things have gone a bit south, actually.

It’s not that Harry’s mean or anything. He’s not cruel or condescending like before. Well. Not _as_ condescending. It’s just that…Harry seems to have retreated back inside of himself, and Louis thinks it may be because things had gone _too_ well. It was too much, too fast, and Louis had scared the timid squirrel. And now the squirrel is hiding in a fucking tree, nowhere to be seen, occasionally throwing a nut or two down and cracking Louis on the goddamn head and leaving him baffled and aching. And normally such things would cause complete and inner panic and frustration within Louis. Because he feels like he’s running in circles with Harry fucking Styles.

But Niall’s advice keeps popping into his head.

So he doesn’t fall apart whenever Harry remains silent after he tries to make conversation.

He doesn’t fall apart whenever Harry brings guests to their tutoring sessions.

He doesn’t fall apart over the fact that Harry hasn’t “smiled,” or “laughed,” or done or said much of anything other than his public cordialities or his typical scowling greetings and occasional glances up from the textbooks.

He doesn’t fall apart, he doesn’t screech his annoyances at Niall, and he doesn’t map out plans of attack. He just breathes and pushes his frustrations, his screamed questions, his guilt, his empathy, and his discomfort to the back of his mind for another day. Or month. Or year. Or decade.

And he continues on with his present life.

Still though, he mentions it briefly to Zayn one day, when they’re studying in the library and have only a few minutes before they need to pack up so they can make their dinner reservation.

Liam and Niall are sharing a laptop in the corner, giggling like buffoons at some video—the only time Liam’s laughed in awhile, the stress of the latter half of the fall term putting his over achiever-ness into overdrive—while Harry is charming some beautiful boy over by the large windows near the front desk.

And, no, Louis isn’t watching the display. Not watching like a hawk. Because he’s not curious, and he’s not fascinated, and he’s not a little bit irked in the dark recesses of his soul.

“So. Harry,” he mutters to Zayn, who’s on his right, quietly reading a large, dusty novel with chipped pages and endless sentences.

He glances up, his entrancing hazel eyes smacking Louis in the face like they always do. “Harry?” he murmurs questioningly.

“Yes. _Harold_ ,” Louis says wryly, and Zayn smiles. “About him. I, er, don’t know how well things are going.” He glances over to the subject in question, who is now grinning winningly, his curls dusting the frame of his face as he laughs pleasantly, pressing soft, purposeful hands to the boy’s wrist. His face is feral.

Louis resists the urge to grimace.

“What do you mean?” Zayn asks, attention caught, and softly closes his book, peering at Louis intently.

“I just…I don’t know what’s wrong. Everything was going really well the one day. Then the next…I dunno, mate.” He considers sharing the quotes Harry gave him, is about to, then something stops him. A quiet, possessive, discomforted pang that already regrets having shown them to Niall, even. “I don’t know what to do,” he simply says instead, and Zayn nods to himself, now also looking at Harry.

“I wish I could help you,” he mumbles at last, soft. He shrugs. “But you’re better at this than me.”

“I’m really not,” Louis laughs, shaking his head. “I’m out of my realm, bro. No fucking clue what to do at this point. But.” He becomes serious, eyes turning to Zayn. “I do have a question.”

He feels himself prickle a bit. Because he’s not sure he wants the answer. Why does he care so much? _Why?_ Life has never been fair.

Zayn’s eyebrow quirks, but he waits patiently.

“You said so yourself that Harry’s family is the most important thing to him, right?”

Zayn nods.

“And that if he’s… _upset_ , so to speak, it would probably be because of that?”

Zayn nods again.

“So, I’m wondering. Because Harry’s getting a bit worse, I think, so… Is Des—“ Louis flicks his hair, glancing in Harry’s direction, before lowering his voice further still. “Is Des still, like, missing or whatever? Does Harry know where his father is?”

Dawning blooms within Zayn’s eyes, and a seriousness overcomes his face. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

And Louis sort of sighs, relieved a bit that he wasn’t given an answer to deal with but still tense with uncertainty, and he nods. “Fair enough. Just figured I’d ask.”

Zayn nods in return, but his eyes are still on him. “Louis,” he purrs quietly, and Louis looks back at him. Zayn’s eyes flit over his face, assessing. At last, he speaks. “It could be bad, all right?”

Louis doesn’t know what that means.

He has no fucking clue, but his veins sort of freeze and there isn’t anything to say, so he nods as Zayn stares at him intently, waiting for a response.

“All right,” Louis says, and he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, or if he’s even agreeing, he’s just nodding, and Zayn’s face eases back into a calm neutrality that simultaneously grounds and scatters Louis.

He doesn’t know what to think.

So he doesn’t for the rest of the day.

**

Louis passed his exam _._

He _passed._

(Only just barely, but he passed, dammit.)

And it’s because of Harry’s tutoring.

In celebration, he sends out a mass text consisting of emoticons, symbols, and the words ‘IVE PASSED ME XAM BOW TO YOUR KING PEASANTS’.

He has a right to be smug. He’s been through a lot.

It feels good, reaping the benefits of weeks of stress and wrinkle inducing tutoring sessions. It feels _really_ good and Louis feels _smart_ —almost like he might be good at this whole ‘university’ thing. Almost like he might not end up living in a rubbish bin behind Tesco.

He makes a mental note to cover Harry’s floor in lilies or kiss his feet or pour champagne into his mouth, or whatever Harry wishes really, because without him, surly behavior and all, he would still be failing these exams and floundering and stressing and giving Charles more reason to talk shit about how useless his son is, even at things like learning. Yes, Louis absolutely wants to shower Harry with thankful praises and presents. Though that would probably be fruitless, considering Harry still doesn’t even text him back, let alone acknowledge Louis’ good deeds for him. He never did find out if Harry’d received his Dorian Gray quote he slipped under his door after Halloween…

But at this point, it’s whatever. Their friendship is growing less and less likely, and though it eats at Louis in a quiet, dull way, he knows there’s really nothing he can do at this point.

Because Harry is acting more and more distracted and Louis can only watch.

True, things have become generally quieter amongst the boys since the term’s begun to conclude and exams have become more serious. They party less, throw excess around a little less, and have begun replacing sweaty nights with sleepy ones buried within the pages of textbooks. Most of their time off is either spent around Zayn’s table, laughing about everything and nothing while they drink and smoke, snapping too many photos and puttering on their laptops, or at Liam’s, wasting brain cells on video games, mild drugs, pricey liquors, and atrocious, impromptu jam sessions. It’s all less glitzy than the usual, but it’s nice. And Louis almost prefers it.

He likes how Zayn stays in at night, swaddled in black sweatpants and band t-shirts, hair in disarray while he wears, large, oversized black glasses that slip down his nose as he scribbles out notes and powers through novel after novel, bookmarking symbolic themes and loud quotes.

He likes how Liam’s face scrunches with worry and concentration as he pours over spreadsheets and Powerpoints, the sleeves of his oversized jumper pushed up to his elbows, receiving important phone calls and addressing everyone with his business-like, speedy sentences, his shoulders taught and the shadows present under his large eyes.

He likes how they all feel the weight of school, as one, and have downgraded to ratty clothes and greasy hair. And how, without the constant thrum of excitement, they still get along famously, still care, still have more fun than anybody else, and still choose to be with each other. Because, Louis realizes, they’re proper best mates now, all them, and it’s comforting, it’s nice, and it’s better than anything Louis could have hoped for in coming to this damn school.

Having said that.

Niall never gets affected by school. He still has Rory completing the assignments he doesn’t care for while he putters around on his audio programs and watches senseless YouTube videos for indefinite periods of time. And since the others have been a bit lackluster after 11 PM, he’s the one who still manages to go out on the town, solo, and stumbles back to the flat at odd hours to sit and ride out his intoxications with a pajama clad Louis.

And then there’s Harry. Quiet, increasingly distracted, solitary Harry. He never does his coursework—Louis doesn’t know how this boy is passing—and he rarely ever sits, always seeming to pace, always standing and staring out of windows, clutching his phone in white-knuckled hands. Though he’s often present, he barely talks, not even to Zayn, and Louis can’t remember the last time he’s had a ‘thing’ or an ‘obsession’ and he can’t believe he’s saying it, but Louis sort of misses all of it. Once in awhile, while Louis’ in the middle of telling a grand, bullshit story or teasing one of the boys, he’ll catch Harry looking at him, his eyes watchful and curious, peering at him with a quiet intensity that Louis can’t gauge. It’s unnerving, Harry’s calm, unblinking gaze. But then it’s gone, and nothing changes.

Their tutoring sessions have been so quiet.

With Harry never straying from the lesson, his face never straying from the notes, and his slender fingers resting on the spines of books as he highlights quotations, there really isn’t much room for anything lively or memorable. He drawls unhurried definitions and explanations, breathes quietly in the silence, and barely glances at Louis, never comes near Louis, won’t acknowledge Louis, and it’s all just so fucking strange because isn’t this the boy who watched the sun rise with him while they sang Daft Punk?

The world feels upside down. But Louis needs to focus, needs to think of school, so all he can do is offer jokes and smiles and scoffs, but he can’t push it any further than that.

But now, as Louis is entering Harry’s rooms (because that’s one thing that’s changed—Harry keeps his door unlocked, leaving Louis free entry to his place and, on the good days, he’ll even have a cup of tea prepared and waiting for him), freshly invigorated from his successful exam, his thoughts are only pleasant, his only distress being that he sort of wishes he really did pick up a bushel of lilies for Harry as a thank you.

The main room is empty, Louis notes upon entering.

And, oh, it’s actually a very good thing he didn’t get those lilies because something else is scattering every single centimeter of the floor—paper. Stacks and piles and clusters of papers. Sheet music actually, at the looks of it. Handwritten and scribbled and elegant.

Okay then.

And Harry is nowhere in sight.

“Curly?” he calls tentatively, checking his phone just in case (though, why, he doesn’t know—he’d sooner get a text from Zeus than he would Harry), and begins walking through the flat, peering into the empty rooms.

There’s nothing, just the typical cat figurines and the ancient record players and the books and flowers and—huh.

There, on a small, intricate wooden table by a window is a picture of Des, Harry, and a thin, impeccable, wasting away girl with wide eyes and beautiful hair that could only be his sister. It’s black and white—of course it is, because Harry’s probably had it specially edited, the artful git—and it’s from some sort of banquet or awards show or premier or who knows whathefuck, given their world. But they are all dressed immaculately, and they’re clustered together closely enough to resemble a family.

It looks rather recent, Harry’s face only a touch more childlike, but it’s his face. Louis stares at his face. Because he’s smiling. _Smiling_. Actual smiling. And it’s wide and sunny and it fills the smooth planes of his face and he looks like he fucking sparkles with those warm eyes and that shadowed dimple and it sort of fucking twists Louis’ stomach because it only gives further contrast to the Harry that he knows. The empty, stark one that is worlds away from this genuine being that emanates warmth. And he doesn’t know if it was because Harry was better back then or if it’s because he’s with his family here, but it sticks to Louis’ ribs and the only reason he can look away is because Des.

Des. With his crinkled eyes and shadows and hair in disarray and slack jaw. With one hand flashing a thumbs up, the other in his pocket. Not, say, embracing his children. No. Just his hands to himself, lightly acknowledging the camera with a manic grin and black eyes that bear enough history in the outlines for Louis to just _know._

And Louis could really stare at this all day, this picture that’s worth endless words, but then—a piano sounds.

Ah yes. The piano.

Wordlessly, he heads in the direction of Harry’s bedroom, leaving the photograph behind without a second glance. The piano grows louder, soft, plonking keys that pepper the air, one at a time.

Upon reaching the door, he nudges it open softly, and there he is. Sitting on the edge of the stool, one hand mindlessly tapping keys, the other buried in his endless ribbons of tangled hair, his eyes staring unseeingly out of the window.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks, and his voice cuts through the air, hitting Harry like a bullet.

Immediately, he shoots up, as if he’d been awoken from a deep sleep, his fingers untangling from his hair.

“How long have you been here?” he demands, his voice thick from exhaustion.

“Long enough.” Louis glances around the room, at the stacks of blank paper, the sheet music littering every inch of the floor, bits of paper crumbled, an odd book or two cracked open and lying expectantly. He toes at a particularly chaotic looking page. “What is all this? Are you in a music course?”

“No.” Harry stands up, beginning to gather the loose papers off of the ground.

“Did you write all of this?” he asks, stunned.

And then Harry’s head snaps to him, eyes glaring. “Stop asking questions.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise. “All right, Gestapo. Care to take away my right to vote as well?”

Harry ignores him, continuing to pile his papers together, before selecting one and bringing it over to the piano. He stares at it as his other hand taps out a simple melody, while Louis watches from the doorway.

And then suddenly Harry’s whipping across the room, brandishing a guitar at him.

“Play a ‘C minor.’ I want to hear how it sounds with the piano.”

Louis stares at him. “Curly. In no way do I know how to play a guitar.”

He practically growls, taking the guitar back. “You don’t? What the hell did they teach you growing up?”

“Reading. Writing. Addition. Subtraction. How to fake sick.”

Once again, Harry doesn’t respond, instead grabbing a fresh piece of paper and beginning to scribble out a series of notes.

“You seem stressed,” Louis says, awkwardly standing in the doorway, bag hanging from his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, I am. And I’m not really in the mood to tutor you today, so how about we just cancel.”

“Well. All right, then. But…” Louis pauses, inspecting his fingernails. “Would you, er, mind if I just stayed here anyway, then?”

Harry stills. “What?”

“Just to study, like.”

“Look, I really don’t feel like helping out right now—“

“I know, you great prat, I heard you the first time. I just want a place to study. I’ll keep to myself. It’s just that Niall’s home and he’s playing video games because he never does his homework and he’s making a general mess of the place and, well. Ya know. I could use a bit of time away. And since you’re also working on something…”

Harry blinks, confused. “So. You just want to…study.”

“Yes.”

“In my rooms.”

“Yes.”

“And not because you need me to help you or anything.”

“Yes.”

Pause.

Harry peers at him from his current crouching position on the floor, quiet and small in his tweed trousers and white collared shirt that’s buttoned to his neck, papers stacked in his hands.

Another beat of silence passes, and Louis fidgets, pretending to appear aloof but feeling awkward as fuck, so he flicks his hair and begins feeling for his phone as he waits.

Maybe he should just go to the library.

“Um.” The silence is broken, and he immediately looks back to Harry. “Okay. Yeah. All right, then,” Harry finally says, and he seems more troubled and bewildered than anything. But he goes along with it, and Louis nods, appeased.

“Thanks, mate,” he says easily, setting down his bag and flopping into a chair in the corner, opposite the piano and facing Harry’s back. He briefly considers sprawling onto Harry’s enormous, canopied bed and studying there, but he knows he would probably get a book thrown at him, so he ignores the thought and settles deeper into the large, embroidered chair, unpacking his things as Harry slowly refocuses himself.

Soon enough, they get into the flow of things, each working on their own projects, silent and focused. And it’s quiet. But it’s nice.

Louis’ scribbling notes peacefully into his notebook while Harry plucks keys, humming to himself and closing his eyes, eyebrows pinched in concentration, feeling the changing melodies within. And Louis really is focusing on his tasks at hand, he is, but he also can’t help but notice how incredibly beautiful the sounds coming from Harry’s piano are, and eventually, he raises his head and just stares as Harry wildly creates haunting, mesmerizing melodies.

“I know you probably don’t want my opinion,” he begins, and the piano immediately stops, Harry jumping, startled. “But that has got to be one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.”

Harry starts, looking over to Louis with quiet eyes, before his brow furrows and he grabs another blank piece of paper. “No, it’s not.”

“Well, see, yeah it is actually. It’s incredible. And if you’ve written that…well then. I think I might be impressed.”

“Opinions are subjective,” Harry mumbles, completely unaffected by the praise, rejecting it without a second thought, and Louis frowns, setting down his pen and staring fully at Harry’s slumped figure.

“Sure. But if there’s a knob who doesn’t like that, then I can’t say that their opinion is worth all that much.” He pauses. “And you know, I’m not just saying it to be kind, either. I never lie about compliments. Never. Not once. I don’t give them out much, see, cuz the way I figure it, they mean more that way. So me complimenting you right now is a real honor, Curly. You’re welcome.”

Harry glances up. “You never lie?”

Louis grins. “I’m too young and entitled to lie.”

He’s expecting some eye-rolled retort back, but all he receives is that quiet stare, Harry watching and blinking. And then, of course, he turns around, blocking Louis out.

“Everybody lies. It’s just part of human nature.”

“Oh, how little you know me then,” Louis smirks, and as Harry looks back up at him, Louis looks back down at his notebook, pen dancing in his hand, his lips still quirked.

And though he feels Harry’s eyes linger on him for quite awhile, he doesn’t look back up, instead turning the page of his school book, ready to start the next chapter.

**

It’s been a couple of hours, and the sun is beginning to set, but Harry’s still lost within his work and Louis is rather enjoying himself, getting vast amounts of homework accomplished while he hears the snippets of beautiful melodies.

It’s just as he’s thinking that this has been his first good day in quite awhile that his phone rings. His stomach drops at the caller ID.

“Fuck. It’s my mum,” he utters without thinking, staring at his phone, frozen.

Harry spins around, stares at him with wide eyes. They flick between Louis and the lit up phone, buzzing incessantly on the armrest beside him. “You’re not going to answer it?” he finally asks, nodding towards it.

Louis’ jaw sets. “No. Whatever she has to say, I’m not in the mood for. I’ve got to study,” he says curtly, flipping his phone over and returning to his notes, face a bit more tense and hands a bit more clenched.

Of course she had to call and ruin his pleasant thoughts. Of course. Isn’t Niall her replacement son now? Doesn’t she call him only? What happened to that?

The room feels a bit tense and silent, and Louis’ skin feels too warm at the thought that _he’s_ caused the changed in mood this time. He feels Harry’s eyes on him and he’s uncomfortable, all too aware of the silent implications in his words and the fact that he probably should have just never said anything. Or maybe he should’ve just answered it and brushed her aside as he always does.

“You don’t get on with your mum,” Harry’s voice says, and it’s not a question.

Louis doesn’t look up. “No. I do not.”

Pause.

“But. She’s your mum.”

“Is she?” Louis snorts. “She doesn’t act like it.”

Harry seems caught by the subject, having paused his frantic, agitated actions of scouring through his sheet music and instead now absentmindedly fumbling lightly with the corner of a random page as he stares down at it. “How so?” he asks, and his voice is feigning nonchalance, but Louis can feel the coiled tension beneath, the genuine curiosity and…something unidentifiable.

“Because—“ Louis stops. He never talks about his mum. Not really. He doesn’t see the point in it. If anything, it causes him anger or makes him dwell on it more than is necessary, which does shit all for anybody, so he doesn’t think about, doesn’t talk about it. Just deals with it, and it’s really as simple as that. But Harry’s asking, and he thinks he may need to hear this answer, and Louis’ got nothing to lose from it, so. So he continues. “Because after Charles left, she became a selfish mess and I had to pick up the pieces. She was all right before then—a proper enough mum. She read stories to my sisters and hugged us before we left the house and made us dinner and decorated the house for every holiday. She asked us about our days and remembered our birthdays and signed our permission slips when we needed them the next day for school. But Charles spoiled her, probably too much, because she never seemed to pick up on the fact that he didn’t like me. She was too focused on the presents and the holidays and the jewelry. So after he had an affair and they divorced, she lost herself. Maybe she lost herself before then, I don’t know. I have five younger sisters. The youngest is four. I basically raised them—she wouldn’t. She cries because she wants attention, she picks at you if she’s feeling bad about herself, and she loves me, she does, but she loves me most when it serves her best. She gives into her weaknesses and forgets about us, completely fucking forgets about her six children. Then suddenly the next minute she’s practically strangling us because she won’t fucking let go—just clings and suffocates us, peering over our shoulders and sitting in our laps and crying all the goddamn time. Sometimes she leaves for days at a time, just because she wants to find herself. I’ve no clue where she goes, nor do I care to know. Sometimes she wants to find a boyfriend. Just because she’s bored and insecure. Sometimes she flirts with me best mates for attention. Sometimes she screams at me in public because I don’t give in to her. And sometimes she’s good, yeah, drives me to appointments or takes care of me when I’m sick. She came down here to help me move. She misses me, too. But thing is, I think she only misses me because I looked after her and took care of her. I don’t know. That day you took me to your house? Yeah, she was in a proper strop, on her way here to drag me home and make me leave school. All because she was having a bad day and decided to blame me for Charles’ problems. Fuck, probably for her own problems! And I have to thank you again for that because, even though you probably didn’t do it on purpose and were just bringing me along for whatever other reason, that saved my life. I’m not good with her. Niall, Niall’s good with her. But I’m not. I don’t feel bad for her. I don’t have the patience for her. I just…I’m just a bit bitter, I suppose.” He sighs, and he feels drained, the words having erupted and forced themselves out of his mouth. He didn’t plan on saying that much, not nearly, but it felt relieving in some odd way, and Louis forces himself back to the present before taking a look at Harry.

His head is bowed, hands in his lap, and Louis isn’t even sure if he’s paying attention anymore—

“I did,” he suddenly says, quiet and low. “I did bring you with me on purpose that day.” He looks up at Louis, features void, but eyes filled with swirling clouds—which is more life than Louis’ seen in them in weeks.

The room is so quiet that it’s loud, Louis and Harry staring at each other from across the room.

And _fuck_.

He knew it. But he can’t process it. So Louis just stares. Stares into swirling, overcast eyes that have hooked painfully into his own, preventing him from blinking, breathing, thinking. Too much.

“I know what that’s like,” Harry mumbles, practically into Louis’ fucking _soul_ , “To…to need to escape. Just for a bit.”

Louis’ stomach plunks down somewhere near his knees. But it’s a happy feeling, a touched feeling, a warm feeling, a shocked fucking _overwhelmed_ feeling, and he smiles before ducking his head a bit, a flushed smile painting his face. “Well, then. Thank you again. You didn’t have to.”

“Yes I did.”

There’s a moment of silence, where Harry’s looking down at the piano keys and Louis’ looking down at his books, and the air is filled with some thick, heavy matter that almost feels like mutual understanding.

And Louis wants to say more, he wants to say so much more, but his throat is thick and the moment is so fragile—he’s afraid he’ll reach out and shatter it all with his clumsy hands and too-much energy. Because the words Harry’s said are swirling within him and it’s…a lot. Sort of staggering, really.

So they each return to their respective duties.

Harry seems to fall back into his project easily enough, his pen scratching wildly against paper, his head bent and focused.

Louis is _not_ falling back into his studying so easily, instead hearing his heartbeat within his ears, hands slack, and eyes stuck sightlessly on ‘The’—which is the first word on the first page of the book.

Harry took Louis away from his mum on purpose. He admitted it. He took Louis away. He helped Louis. Harry Styles helped Louis Tomlinson. Harry Styles admitted to helping Louis Tomlinson.

_Fuck._

Louis’ thought process continues in this fashion for an indefinite amount of time, the sky now turning black, the stars beginning to speckle through the windows, barely visible through the warm glow of the room. And Harry continues to scribble seamlessly, head bowed, and his hand flies so very eloquently.

But then it stops.

Louis’ senses tighten. He’s still staring at ‘The.’

“Could you--”

Harry stops, bites his lip, then looks away.

Louis’ head snaps up.

“Could I what?” he prods, setting down his textbook.

Harry brushes his fingers against the keys of the piano, lip still caught between his teeth. Then he blinks, releases his lip and licks it. “I was thinking. If I played something. Would you…tell me what you think?” Harry waits for a response, shoulders stiff and feet pressed together as he sits on the edge of the piano bench.

“Of course,” Louis blurts immediately, completely and utterly shocked because…now Harry wants his _opinion??_

A pig flies by the window.

Harry nods to himself, determined, before slowly standing and walking over to retrieve the violin that rests near his bed.

Louis is immediately intrigued. He vaguely remembers Zayn having said something about Harry being able to play, but he’s never heard it himself, and so he watches closely as Harry sits back down on the piano bench, averting his body away from Louis’ just enough so that he can’t see the other boy, but Louis can see his profile, and his quiet, sad eyes that are alarmingly timid and hesitant.

Louis folds his hands in his lap as Harry lifts the instrument to his chin, resting it lightly upon it. With long, slender fingers, he grasps the bow, gently raising it until it sits upon the stiff strings. Gently, flutteringly, he closes his eyes.

Louis holds his breath.

And the bow moves.

He knew it would be beautiful. Somehow. He just…knew.

Harry stretches the bow, long and slow, every ounce of emotion in his pinched, wounded brow spilling into the strings, seeping into the quiet, dimly lit room, crawling up Louis’ flesh and catching under his jumper.

No, it’s not beautiful. It’s utterly and completely breathtaking. It’s so fucking incredible, and sweet, and so maddeningly sad. And it comes from the slump in Harry’s shoulders, the bruises beneath his eyes, the exhaustion in his frown, and Louis thinks that he may never want to hear another sound again. Not when he could be hearing this.

Harry Styles may be assembled from destruction. But how could something so genuinely beautiful be created by someone who was ‘evil’? By someone who supposedly had nothing left inside?

It’s there, as Harry weeps through his music, Louis watching him in silent, speechless awe, that Louis realizes that he may not be as far away from the boy in the photo as he thinks. That that genuine smile Harry had had when he was with Des and his sister, that glow of life, may not be worlds away after all. That it may be sitting, just out of sight, buried beneath dirt and dust.

The music stops. The bow stills. Harry’s long, pale limbs lower, setting the violin down gently on the floor. He waits.

Louis reminds himself to blink.

“I’ve never…” Louis begins, truly speechless. Harry’s shoulders tense at the words and his head moves infinitesimally towards the sound of Louis’ voice, quiet and expectant. And maybe terrified? Which Louis doesn’t understand, because Harry should never feel terrified. He never wants Harry to feel terrified. He clears his throat, blinks a few more times. “I’ve never heard anything like that before. That was.” He stops, looks up and stares hard at Harry’s shaded profile. “Harry, that was incredible.”

He hopes his voice conveys everything he means.

Harry doesn’t move, nor does he respond.

So Louis continues.

“Look, I don’t know what it’s for—if you’re just writing songs for the fun of it or if you’re writing it for someone, or whatever. But that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard and, to be honest, I don’t even know how to fully tell you that. I figured you’d be good—you’re good at everything—but that, there. That’s rare. That’s special, Harry. You’ve got it. You’ve got it and I know it.”

Harry moves, just barely, his eyes opening. “That’s just your opin—“

“And don’t give me that ‘opinions are subjective’ bullshit,” Louis interrupts, rolling his eyes despite his overpowering emotions. “Be that as it may, I’m here, telling you how fucking brilliant that was. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters right now, isn’t it? That, even if the entire world thinks you’re shit, that there’s at least one person who thinks you’re amazing.”

Harry silences at that, still perched on his piano bench, still staring down at his lap.

Moments pass, but Louis doesn’t look away, just stares at Harry, the sounds of the violin still echoing within.

“I think, if it that were played over a faster melody, with guitars and bass and drums, it might be all right, yeah?” Harry asks quietly, still staring at his lap.

Louis’ not really sure where this is coming from or what he has in mind, but nonetheless, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it’d be more than all right.”

Harry nods.

Louis stares.

“Um.” Harry rubs his eyes before standing up, a bit awkwardly, his long limbs threatening to tangle amongst themselves. “I think I’m going to go to bed soon. I’m-I’m tired. So…” Harry drifts, scratching at his head and keeping his eyes averted away from Louis.

“Yeah,” Louis says, understanding, and begins to pack his things, his blood feeling a bit hot, his brain a little heavy. “Sure thing, Curly.”

The only break in the silence of the room is the shuffling of books and paper as Louis stuffs them all into his bag, Harry standing awkwardly behind him. A large grandfather clock ticks nearby.

“Well, then,” Louis says after his bag is slung over his shoulder, all of his items successfully assembled. He turns to look at Harry whose face is now composed, his brow only threatening to furrow but remaining smooth. “Thank you for letting me study here.”

He nods.

Right then.

Louis clears his throat. “I’ll, er. See you tomorrow, then? Unless you needed a couple days’ break from tutoring—“

“No,” Harry says automatically, and Louis blinks in surprise. Harry bites his lip, looks away. His hands are clutched tightly behind his back.

“Oh. All right. Good.”

Silence.

“Thanks for letting me talk about my mum,” Louis offers, not wanting to leave. And he should leave, he needs to leave. Harry wants to be alone and he needs to leave.

Harry shrugs. “I asked, so.” He shrugs again.

“Well, yeah, but. I never talk about that sort of thing. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about my mum before—not really.”

At that, Harry’s eyes lift to his. “You haven’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Louis shrugs. “I don’t care to. Can’t see the point in it.”

Harry’s looking at him, curious, guarded, imploring. Everything at once. “So then why did you tonight?”

“Because you asked,” he says simply.

And Harry’s eyes flicker.

But Louis doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want to scare Harry away with too many words, too many secrets, so instead he motions towards the door. “I should go.”

“Yeah.”

He walks out of Harry’s room and to the door, limbs simultaneously heavy and light, each step slow. It’s only when the wood creaks behind him does he realize that Harry’s following him, actually walking him out.

Which…okay. This is new.

“Well, Curly” he says, turning around as his hand finds the doorknob. “Have a good night. Don’t hurt yourself over that song. You’ve got it in the bag. And remember—I don’t lie.” He smiles for good measure, feeling strange and sort of emotionally exhausted.

Harry nods distractedly, his phone having just buzzed in his pocket, and he reads the screen with concentrated eyes, the glow washing over his features.

Louis takes this as a good sign to exit.

“’Night, Curly,” he says, opening the door and stepping outside. The cool air hits him in tidal waves, freeing him of the heat and the awkwardness and the mountains of thoughts, and he’s just closing the door behind him when suddenly an unnamed force prevents him from doing so.

He turns around—Harry. His large hand is splayed on the wood, bracing it, and he’s staring at Louis with eyes that faintly spark, his hair an absolute mess, his lips pulled into a faint frown. But as he stares at Louis, the frown fades, a softer calm overcoming his features, until he’s just staring at Louis, expressionless and honest.

“Thank you, Louis,” he says after a moment's silence, and his voice is deep and a little raspy, drifting over the words in soft lilts and tumbles.

And. Whoah.

Louis doesn’t think he’s ever heard Harry say his name before, not like _that,_ not without indifference or accompanied by his surname, and whoah.

 _Whoah_.

There’s too much happening. He’s going to need to sit down.

“Any time,” Louis replies, and he sends a smile, which Harry accepts before he withdraws his hand from the door.

And then he’s walking away, retreating into his room, and, eventually, Louis closes the door and walks home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can someone punch me in the face? Please? This is so loooong. I'm so saaad. 
> 
> Anywho. This chapter's song is called 'Damaged.' Harry's song is basically based off of this, and if you want to know what I envisioned Harry playing, go to the 2:40 mark here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzfcI29wJdk
> 
> Woo! 
> 
> BY THE BY. Wowww thank you guys for all your song recs. I'm actually stunned about it all because I have found so, so many amazing songs because of you! Keep 'em coming plz :) 
> 
> ALSO. Check out my tag "this is inspiring me" (mizzwilde.tumblr.com/tagged/this-is-inspiring-me) because there has been fanart and there have been pants clear blown off in amazement at your guys' talent. (Yes, those blown-off pants would be mine.) (Yours will probably get blown off, too)
> 
> Seriously. Thank you Kayla and Brooke for being fan-fucking-tastic and rly damn talented. Like whoah. 
> 
> http://wowsokcool.tumblr.com/post/60711069803/edit-for-mizzwildes-young-beautiful
> 
> http://lovingthisforallitis.tumblr.com/post/60613074834/i-made-this-for-mizzwildes-fic-on-ao3-you
> 
> I LOVE YOU GUYS, COME CHAT, YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL, MWUAH!


	21. XX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a phone call.

Niall’s pounding on the piano like it’s a drum. Even though he has those, too. He’s playing the most chaotic music on the planet, relentlessly, and he’s stoned and laughing at nothing in particular and, well. Louis might really kill him because he’s got another exam in a week and he needs to fucking study.

So he makes a decision that is based purely on logic and nothing else.

“I’m going to study at Harry’s,” Louis calls over the noise, and Niall’s glossed pink eyes smile.

“Cool,” he responds, and continues playing.

This boy. Wow.

Louis slings his bag over his shoulder, throwing one last glare in Niall’s direction. “I’ll be back later.”

“Tell your boyfriend I say—“

Louis slams the door shut.

Mind still on the events of yesterday—Louis telling Harry about his mum, Harry listening, Harry asking for his opinion, Harry calling him by his name in an unpretentious tone and actually saying ‘thank you’ which _might_ have made the moon shine brighter—Louis takes off in the direction of Harry’s rooms.

And while he knows his tutoring session isn’t for about three or so more hours…he decides to just go for it. Because their time yesterday went well enough. So why wouldn’t today be the same?

Upon reaching Harry’s rooms, he quietly opens the door and prays there isn’t any rampant sex going on inside. He peers hesitantly into the living room and, nope, there’s not. It’s barren, save for the sheet music that still rests on the floors and the sheer, vast amount of everything that fills every nook and cranny.

He’s just about to head towards Harry’s bedroom, when there’s a knock at the door.

Did Harry lock himself out? Is it Niall? Did Louis forget something?

He opens the door cautiously, peering out and—oh. It’s some hipster.

Unimpressed, he opens the door fully, staring the boy up and down openly and judgmentally. He’s dressed immaculately disheveled and he’s beautiful and exotic, bred from all the money, and Louis tries not to snort when he notices an ‘anarchy’ tattoo painted on his wrist.

“Hey mate. I’m, uh, here to see Harold,” the boys says, a little unsure, almost as if he’s potentially unaware if he’s at the right door or not.

Lovely.

“He’s not here,” Louis says without ceremony, and shuts the door in the boy’s face before another word is said. And that felt good. With a proud smirk, he turns around, feeling accomplished.

And then the smirk falls straight off of his face because there’s Harry, standing right in front of him, watching the scene with a scowl.

Well, shit.

Did the boy see Harry there the whole time? Is he going to knock again because he knows Louis was lying?

“What was that about?” Harry demands, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s in the most casual clothes Louis has ever seen—inappropriately tight jeans and a black t-shirt that still manages to have buttons at the collar. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept—or at least hasn’t slept peacefully—and Louis regards him with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.

“Er—“

“You had no right to send my guest away,” he says sharply. He’s staring at Louis like a hawk would his prey. Which then sparks the memory of Cleopatrick and, huh, fuck. Louis forgot about that. Harry really is a hot mess, isn’t he?

“I know,” Louis replies, crossing his own arms and shrugging unapologetically. “But I just did, didn’t I?”

Harry glares. “Tell him to come back.”

“I’m not your puppet.”

“Tell him.”

“I wouldn’t even if I wanted to. And do you know why?” Louis asks, eyes pinching into a glare as he takes a step towards Harry who glares harder in response. “Because all of those people are nothing but harpies. And you can do better than that, you great, sex-crazed, bumbling oaf. So, yes, I’m going to send them away every chance I get, and I’m not going to apologize for it, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise!” With that, Louis sniffs and turns away, feeling victorious and adamant. He resists the urge to stomp his foot.

Harry’s glare recedes. “What do you mean, I can do better than that?” he asks, and his tone is surprised and confused and caught off guard and all those other things that make Louis’ arms uncross and fall to his sides, his face turning to Harry’s.

“Just what I said,” he says gently, before his voice picks up its strength again and he flicks his hair out of his eyes. “Now. Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

Harry ducks his head, shuffles a bit. “Why are you here?” he mumbles to the floor, and he’s hugging his stomach now, the light catching in the bags under his eyes.

“Because I need to study and Niall’s being a wanker. I liked it here yesterday. So. Will you take me?” Louis asks, and a smile plays at his lips.

Harry’s head snaps up before it falls back down, his feet pawing at the thick, Persian rug. “Well. I was just sort of getting ready for the day. I mean, I don’t have classes or anything, because I’ve already finished the coursework for all of them. Just, like, doing little things and looking over my song. So, I mean, yeah, that’s fine,” Harry rambles, and he’s fiddling with his watch.

Louis grins. Success.

“Splendid!” he says, and immediately makes a beeline for Harry’s bedroom. “Let’s go in here, yeah? It’s cozy. I like it,” he smiles, and settles down in his chair.

Harry follows behind him, eyes watchful but almost smiling? It’s a pleasant look, whatever it is, so Louis nuzzles deeper into the chair and smiles sleepily up at Harry.

“Have you finished your song?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Can I hear it?”

Harry turns, walks to the window, and stares out. “Yeah.” The sun catches in his skin, his hair, his troubled eyes. “In a bit though. Not right now, yeah?”

“Yeah. All right,” Louis says softly, and he watches the boy before him, bathed in golden light.

And then Louis begins to study and Harry begins to putter about, sifting through his papers, tapping out quick texts on his phone, and pulling worn books off of the shelf to read them, standing long and looking impossibly elegant—casual attire and all—framed in the window.

He literally looks like the embodiment of gold, the sun doing wonders to his body as it streams in through the windows behind him, and the book is so frail and so fragile in his creamy white hands, his fingernails perfectly groomed and soft in hue. His eyelashes glow in the light and the tip of his nose is pink and his lips are wonderfully crimson and—

Okay. Maybe textbooks aren’t the only thing Louis’ studying.

He pulls his gaze away.

“Do you get on with your father?” Harry suddenly asks in his deep, musical voice that sits somewhere on the floor, and it’s out of nowhere and he’s still holding that book in his hands which he’s apparently only pretending to read and it startles Louis completely.

“What?” he asks, taken aback, staring at Harry’s shimmering outline.

He doesn’t look up from the book. “I noticed you call him by his name. And you said he didn’t like you. Why?”

And these questions are so stark and so personal, but Louis finds that, beneath the shock, he really doesn’t mind. So he stares at Harry, shrugs, and plays with the spiral of his notebook.

“We just clash. He thinks I’m annoying and too loud. And immature.” He pauses, fiddles with his fringe. “But to be honest, I think the main reason he dislikes me is because I’m gay.”

Harry’s whole body reacts, seizes completely, but it’s so subtle and hard to catch that he doubts anybody but himself would have noticed such a thing. Which, yeah, maybe Louis really does need to get a hobby and stop obsessing over Harry. Maybe.

“You can’t help that,” Harry says quietly, never looking up.

“I know that. He doesn’t.”

“Have you tried to speak with him?”

And what are all these questions?

Louis jiggles his leg, taps his pen. “Sort of. But he’s not having it, trust me. But I really couldn’t give a fuck, so. Whatever.”

The bowed, curly head finally lifts from the page. “He’s your _father._ ”

“He’s a bad person,” he replies simply, forcefully.

Harry goes back to looking at his book.

More silence.

Louis taps out a beat onto the armrest.

He sees Harry swallow. Then:

“Do you know who my father is?”

The question is asked so quietly and lightly, Louis momentarily thinks he may have envisioned it within. But, no, Harry’s most definitely said it, and he’s nibbling his lip, brows tugging together, staring unblinking at the same page.

Harry has never spoken about his father to Louis. Never. Not directly, anyway. And Louis knows this, Harry knows that Louis knows this, and everything feels important right now as Louis’ stomach clenches and he resists the urge to walk over to Harry, rip the book out of his hands, grab his shoulders, and find a little bit of reality in the shade.

Instead, he sits in his chair, clutching his pencil so tightly he fears he may snap it in half. “Yeah,” he replies truthfully.

Harry nods, mostly to himself. “I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of things.”

“Yeah,” Louis repeats.

Harry nibbles harder on his lips.

“I’m—“ he stops, blinks hard. He looks up from the book but stares only at the wall, eyes wide and glassy, with a touch of fear in the corners. “I’m not sure if he’s a bad person or not,” he admits quietly, whisper soft, and it’s said so fearfully and so confusedly, that Louis has to physically restrain himself from gathering the boy in his arms and embracing his demons away.

Because fuck. He’s staring at the broken, jagged bits of Harry right now. And it’s painful. It’s actually physically painful.

Louis says nothing, just stares and bites back his own prickling emotions. “How is he?” he dares to ask, opting for that instead of ‘ _where_ is he.’

But he imagines Harry’s reply would have been much the same:

“I don’t know.”

And Louis doesn’t know what that means—surely, surely he’s not still missing after all this time??—but he doesn’t like the feeling it gives him, or the weight it lays upon Harry, whose broad bones seem so, so brittle sometimes. He’s about to say more, say that Harry has a right to think his father’s a bad person, say that Des doesn’t deserve his loyalty, that he’s a better son than Louis is, but then Harry’s phone rings and he snatches it up immediately, eyes wide.

“Hello?” Harry’s face is hard.

And then it’s white.

“I’m on my way,” is all he says, before he’s stuffing the phone into his jeans and flying out of the bedroom.

“Wha—Harry!” Louis calls, pouncing out of his chair, and races after him.

He finds him stuffing his jacket on, sliding his feet into his boots, and his cheeks are pallid and hollow and his eyes are so, so wide and he looks like he’s been stunned, and as he fumbles to assemble himself, Louis just watches, arms limp at his sides.

“Who was that?” he asks as Harry taps out a number into his phone.

He ignores Louis, pressing it to his ear. “David? Pick me up at the school. Now.” And then the phone’s back in his pocket and he’s hurrying past Louis.

“Harry,” he tries again, and he trails behind him as he begins stuffing all of his sheet music into a bag. He watches his frenzied movements, at a loss. “Harry, what’s wrong? What are you doing?”

Still, he ignores Louis, and he’s not even sure if Harry truly hears him. But then the bag is packed and Harry grips it into his impossibly tight clutch, and he’s making to leave out the door when Louis steps in his path and grips his arm, his hand burning through the thick wool of Harry’s jacket. .

“Can you please just answer me?! I’m not fucking invisible, am I?” he almost shouts, and Harry’s eyes train on him, as if for the first time.

“I have to go, Louis.”

“I understand that, I know, I get it, okay? And I won’t press for details. But fuck’s sake, you’re flitting about like a fucking hummingbird and you look like you’ve just had a stroke and I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but can you at least tell me if you’re all right? Is everything all right?”

He takes in Louis’ expression, searching and slow, and there’s something settling within his irises that resembles understanding. Or is it guilt? Or pity? Or is it nothing at all?

“Everything’s all right,” he appeases Louis softly, who sighs in relief. “Better than all right, even.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise. “Yeah? Better?”

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he says softly.

And then it’s there. This split second where, with Louis’ hand still pressed into the crook of Harry’s elbow, Harry mirrors the touch, bringing his hand to brush softly against Louis’ arm. And it’s so fucking brief and subtle that it could be a damn accident or trick of the mind, but Louis feels it, felt it, and he feels a noticeable explosion in his ribcage as Harry begins to disengage himself and slip away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he calls questioningly, as Harry’s just about out the door.

Harry looks back, his face remarkably more relaxed than it’s been in months, a small smile settled on his mouth. “Yeah,” he nods, and then he sends one last lingering look Louis’ way before he turns and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrightykins, so, this chapters' song is: Sons and Daughters - "Awkward Duet" Listen to this song. I love it so much. It's perfect for this. It's one of my fav songs of all time. <3 
> 
> Once again, thank you darrrlings for reading. Such sweeties, such beautiful minds, I love you all <3


	22. XXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry laughs.

Louis doesn’t see Harry the next day.

He arrives for tutoring early, his anxieties numbing his fingertips. He’d been thinking about this moment all day, through every never ending course and half-assed conversation. Through every note scribbled down, every turn of the page in his textbooks, and every attempt at ignoring the whispered rumors that surrounded him involving the lads (at one point a girl smugly claimed to her friend that Zayn and Harry had broken out into a fisticuffs over her—Louis snorted so loudly the professor paused, mid-sentence, startled), he had only half paid attention, his thoughts and the beatings of his heart trapped somewhere within Harry’s rooms, stirring the unanswered questions that were dripping from his tongue. In fact, he’d been so eager for today’s session with Harry, he’d even rejected Niall’s invitation of steak and wine at his favorite restaurant. It was that serious.

But now he’s arrived and when Louis makes to open Harry’s door, it’s locked.

And when Louis knocks, it doesn’t open.

And when Louis texts _‘where r u?’_ it goes unanswered.

And so Louis’ insides deflate.

And he walks back to his flat, disappointment and a new sense of dread settled into his bones and twisting the hairs at the back of his neck.

Excellent.

**

“If he’s missing again, so help me God!” Louis greets thunderously as soon as he enters the flat.

Niall looks up from his drum set, his large, pale sweater pushed up to the elbows, drumsticks poised above his head, ready to crash down. “Huh?” he asks, snapping into attention.

“Harry. He’s not in his rooms. He’s gone, isn’t he? He’s gone again, and we’re all just going to sit around looking pretty while he’s off in a ditch somewhere, probably dead, and nobody’s going to even—“

“What the fuck are you talking about, mate?” Niall asks, face utterly bewildered as he lowers the drumsticks, tossing them to the side, and giving his full attention to a very flustered Louis—who is now ripping off his jacket with more force than necessary.

Perhaps he’s wound a bit too tightly today. Anxiety and all that.

“I’ll text Zayn!” Louis suddenly says to nobody in particular, light bulb bursting into life above his head. He scuttles into the next room, kicking off his shoes as he does so and leaving them strewn across the floor.

“Text him what?” Niall calls after him.

“That Harry’s missing!”

 _‘Where’s Harry?’_ he pelts out mercilessly on his phone, at an alarming speed.

“You should just leave it alone,” Niall calls, picking up one of the forgotten drumsticks and twirling it in his fingers.

“Too late!” Louis sings. He flits back into the room, now adorned in a full sweatsuit, and stares hungrily at his phone as it vibrates.

The reply:

_‘Dunno mate.’_

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis breathes, rolling his eyes with exasperation as he tosses his phone onto the nearest surface. “Of course he doesn’t know. Does anybody know anything around here?” he demands. Then he storms back into his room.

Niall stares. “Are you okay?’

“Me? _I’m_ fine! _I’m_ fucking splendid! But it’s not _me_ who I’m worried about—it’s Harry! He’s gone again, Niall, gone! And after that phone call he got yesterday, I can only imagine what that means! He said he’d see me today but he’s not in his fucking rooms and—“

“Maybe he went out.”

“What? No. No! We had tutoring! He wouldn’t just forget about it like that! Why do you say stupid thing—“

Niall whistles low, cutting off Louis’ slew of pelted, agitated words. “We’re talking about Harry? Because I fuckin’ guarantee you he’d forget something like that. Why would that come as a surprise? You know what he’s like.”

Louis keeps from growling.

Yeah. He does know what Harry’s like. But apparently, Niall does not.

“He’s not like that, Niall. He’s not some selfish, evil bastard.”

“He’s not?” he asks, tossing the drumstick into the air before catching it, eyes focused on the movement.

Louis whips around to stare at the boy, hands on hips. “That’s not funny.”

“Jesus,” Niall mutters, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you really are in love with him.”

“I’M NOT IN LOVE WITH HIM,” he screeches in response, then storms to the bathroom and slams the door.

Niall blinks.

“Right. Well. On another note. I got an A on my last exam!” he calls, sliding off of the drum stool.

There’s a brief pause before Louis’ muffled voice emerges from behind the bathroom door. “You mean Rory got an A?”

Niall laughs. “No, I mean Google got an A.”

“I’m not even going to ask.”

Niall grins as Louis finally emerges from the bathroom, hair damp as he towels his face.

“Also, my father texted me. Recording’s back on for Des’ new track.”

Louis freezes. “Sorry?”

“The new track—the one I’m doing the drums for—it’s back on. He texted me this morning.”

“So Des is…” Louis swallows, gripping the damp towel in his hands, his mind immediately returning to Harry’s unanswered door. “Des is back? He’s recording and everything?”

A shrug. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Is Harry with him?”

“How the fuck should I know? I’ve only just heard—haven’t been there myself yet, have I?”

Louis ignores him, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting together in his head. Because of course. Des is back. Harry got the phone call, rushed away, looked almost happy, even…

Des is back.

A grin splits Louis’ face.

“Harry’s probably with him,” he smiles, looking over to Niall.

“Probably, yeah.”

“You going to the studio tonight, then?”

“Yep.”

“You’ll let me know if he’s there?”

Niall throws his head back in exasperation. “Fuck’s sake, Louis…”

“Niall,” Louis threatens, and picks up his stray shoe, threatening to pelt it at the boy’s head.

“Yeah, yeah, fine, sure. I’ll text you.”

“Thank you,” Louis grins, before tossing the shoe back down and joining Niall who is currently now making his way to the fridge. He ruffles his morning-sun hair and smacks his bum.

Which, naturally, Niall doesn’t even react to, remaining completely unfazed.

“You’re becoming obsessed,” is all he breathes in reply, under his breath.

“Am not. Now. Take me out to dinner? I want to complain about school and things.”

And, simple as that, they leave.

**

Harry isn’t there the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

Nor is he ever at the studio, which Niall dutifully informs Louis of at nearly every waking moment, though Niall claims the recording is going splendidly, the track nearly finished. (“Des even came by today.” “Oh, he did? How did that go?” Niall shrugs. “Fine, I guess. He was a bit quiet. Kept to himself. He’s a damn good musician, though. The song he wrote is incredible.” “Oh really? How nice. Was, um, you know, Harr—“ “No, Louis, Harry wasn’t there.”)

So Louis texts him. More than he’d like to admit _._ He texts him before every tutoring session. _‘Omw. U better be there. Ass._ ’ Or some variation of that. He texts him when he hits mental brick walls while studying, his brain scattering to a thousand different places (most of those places landing on Harry’s doorstep which is just excellent) and leaving him little room to do anything else but tap out a, _‘Where r u?’_ or the occasional, _‘R u ok?’_ and sometimes the, _‘Im going to fail my term and itll be your fault. Think about that Curly.’_ And, of course, there’s the, _‘Can u at least text me to assure me that ur not dead? That wld be nice.’_

All to no avail.

And it’s sort of worrisome, yeah, it is. But Louis keeps telling himself, each time he arrives at Harry’s door and knocks fruitlessly, feeling a strange disappointment clunk in his stomach once he begins walking away silently, that he’s probably happy, probably safe, and probably with his father. Which…well. Louis actually doesn’t know how to feel about that.

But he really would like to think that Harry being with his father is a good, safe thing. So he leaves it at that.

He leaves it at that, and he doesn’t stare at his phone hopefully, he doesn’t walk by Harry’s rooms every day in hopes to see a light, he doesn’t stand in the gardens and wait for a movement, a flicker, anything, and he doesn’t reenact their last conversation in his head over and over and over. He absolutely does none of these things because the end of term is almost here, December is just around the corner—next week, in fact—and Harry Styles is just a boy who, really, may or may not be considered a mate.

And it’s that simple, really.

Yep.

That simple.

**

They’re in the library—even Niall—and it’s been four days since Louis last saw Harry.

“Don’t worry about him,” Zayn had assured him in a puff of smoke, and Louis smiled and nodded, sidling the conversation into one of lighter, funnier territory, while the mechanics of his mind clicked and puttered on, undeterred.

And while Louis wouldn’t label his feelings as ‘worry’, so to speak, he did still continue to think about Harry despite Zayn’s muttered assurances.

So it comes as no surprise that he’s thinking about him right now as the boys bask in the silence, Zayn highlighting passages in his novel, Liam clicking frantically on his Macbook, the blue-bright screen highlighting the creases of anxiety etching his face, and Niall banging out a steady beat with his pen on the tabletop, pretending to read his notes. Because the fifth chair at their table—the chair that resides in the corner, edged by the bookshelves and thick, wooden walls marked with scratches from centuries past—is empty. Because that’s Harry’s self-appointed chair. The one that he demands to sit in because it’s “romantic and lonesome and just detached enough to remain poetic.” And while Louis had scoffed at the explanation at the time—threw an eraser at the boy’s head even, which earned him a scowl and a crumpled ball of paper to the face—he sort of understands it now, watching it lie in its shaded solitude, forgotten and forlorn in the corner. He’s almost tempted to sit in it just to dispel the pure loneliness it’s procuring. Almost.

It’s as Louis is lost in his thoughts, still staring at the empty chair, that a wizened, posh looking gentleman ambles along and stops abruptly as he sees Liam.

“Liam Payne!” he greets, as Liam’s stress soaked gaze looks up, startled. The man grins down, his ironed trousers and crisp jacket contrasting with the lads’ synchronized uniforms of heavy cotton and polyester. “William Payne’s boy, correct?”

Liam’s face immediately splits into a practiced grin, his mannerisms clipping into utter perfection. “Right you are, sir,” he smiles, standing up and shaking the man’s hand with gusto.

“Your father’s been telling us about how well you’ve done in your courses this term.”

Liam laughs tinklingly, shrugging his shoulders modestly. “Well, I certainly hope so. I do like to keep my marks up to the best of my abilities.”

The man smiles approvingly, assessing Liam with old, elitist eyes. Louis sort of wants to squirt his water bottle in his face.

“Your father says you’ve been excelling at the student newspaper. We’re proud of our university’s paper—it’s got a reputation to uphold. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes, sir.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“He tells me that you might take over in his shoes sooner than we think.” This is probably meant as a compliment, but Liam looks more terrified than anything. “We’re all looking forward to your work this year, Liam. You never disappoint.”

Liam laughs again, slightly manical, while the man smiles on, completely oblivious. “And I hope I never do!” Liam laughs politely, eyes crinkling.

He nods one last time, before clapping Liam on the back. “I best be off. Send your father my regards.”

“Of course, sir. Have a good day, sir.”

As soon as the man is gone, Liam falls into his chair, eyes wide, dark, and panicked. “My father is talking about me??” he hisses. “What has he been saying?! How am I supposed to work under all of this pressure? Why the fuck would he do that to me?!”

Louis hadn’t seen Liam’s uncollected side up until recently. And, quite frankly, he finds it hilarious. He sniggers as Liam’s face pales with each frantic word that spills from his lips.

“It’s cuz he’s proud of you,” Zayn purrs seamlessly in response, looking up from his book.

Liam’s head collapses into his hands. “Yeah. Well I hate him.”

“No you don’t. You’re just stressed, is all,” Zayn soothes, and immediately stands behind him and begins to massage his shoulders.

Louis, feet kicked up, clad in sweatpants, and chewing on a pencil, glances up at the pair.

“If I hear just one sweet nothing whispered between the two of you, I will not hesitate to punch you both in the balls.”

Niall guffaws, Zayn chuckles, and Liam looks appalled.

“I’m just sayin’,” Louis mumbles quietly, unable to resist a smirk, and Niall laughs louder, the sound filling the quiet, endlessly vaulted ceilings, bouncing off of the dusty bookshelves and the worn carpet, the ancient books, the marble statues, and the empty chair that sits at their table, untouched.

Which Louis continues not to think about as Zayn kneads cool, calming hands into Liam’s back.

The silence is only broken once more, about an hour later.

“I’m sick of this shite. I want to go out,” Niall says, dropping his notebook onto the tabletop and sighing harshly, the noise grating against the air.

Three sets of eyes look up as one.

“It’s a weekday!” Liam says, offended at the very thought.

Niall shrugs. “So? We used to go out every night of the week.”

“Oh, those were the days,” Louis laments, frowning down at his stack of books and messy piles of paper. “I wish I could go…”

“You wish you could go?” Liam gapes, almost screeches. Louis’ eyebrows raise. “What is wrong with you two?? How could you possibly consider just moseying about around town when we have exams and papers and editorials and deadlines and outlines and blueprints and meetings and…” And with each listed chore, his voice raises an octave higher, until a bemused Zayn is forced to wrap his arms around Liam’s tense, tense shoulders, purring calming words into his ear and ushering him to the side for some unwinding time.

“It’s all right, Li. You’ll be fine. Just fine. Shh,” he breathes in a satin soft tone, gently rubbing his thumbs against Liam’s nearly quivering arms.

Louis sniggers while Niall raises his eyebrows at the spectacle.

“Right. So you coming then, Tommo?” he asks, turning to face Louis.

He sighs. “Nah, mate. In a perfect world, I would, but as it is...”

“All right,” he concludes, hopping out of the chair and popping his pen into his mouth, notebook gripped at his side. “Suit yourself. Have a good ones, lads. Bye, honey.” He adds, pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek messily before bounding away.

Louis watches, fond and exasperated simultaneously. “I swear, Ireland. If you end up getting better grades than me this term, I will peel your skin off with a paperclip.”

Niall pauses, turning around, his eyebrows nearly hidden in his hairline. “Bit harsh, innit?”

Louis looks down at himself—the socks he’s had on for days, the wilted sweatpants with an unnerving orange stain from the spaghetti he’d had last night, and that’s not even _beginning_ to mention his greasy, stubbly complexion or the matted cluster of grease that claims to be hair that is currently sitting atop his head. All because he’s spent more time studying than bathing or sleeping. And then he looks back to Niall. Sunny, golden, clean, and calm Niall.

“No.”

And Niall laughs, head tilted back, teeth white and immaculate, before heading out the door without a second’s thought.

“And you said Liam and I were bad,” Zayn teases with a smirk.

“Yeah. Cuz me and Niall don’t shag like you two fuckers,” he mutters, which only makes Zayn’s grin grow and Liam’s eyes widen.

 And then he goes back to his book, firmly ignoring the way Liam and Zayn look at each other, and the empty chair in the corner.

**

Another day of classes have gone by—and another impressive exam score (is this real life?)—and Louis is on his way to Harry’s once again, already steeling himself for the silence he knows he will be met with as he trudges through the patter of icy rain, a beanie tucked over his head and just managing to cover the tips of his reddening ears. He whips out his phone, as is custom, and taps out a, _‘Probs gonna be greeted by a locked door again. U kno u shld rly text me back and save me the trouble u nuisance.’_

Like absentminded clockwork he climbs the steps near the gardens, walks up to his door, turns the faded metal of the doorknob, pushes the heavy wooden door open and—and it’s _open_.

He nearly falls inside.

Before he has time to gather himself—his shoulder bag nearly bringing him down, and hard—he hears movement from just beyond his line of sight.

“Louis Tomlinson,” _that_ voice greets, and instead of Louis’ stomach clunking in disappointment, it soars up to somewhere near his mouth.

Because he was not expecting Harry to actually be here. Nor was he expecting him to be…holding strawberries? And wearing a red suit and bow tie, smiling dashingly as he offers them to him in a gilt bowl.

If he’s being honest, he sort of assumed Harry would be in the depths of despair upon their next encounter, what with Des being back and all the unforeseen complications that seem to accompany the man. But this certainly isn’t an unwelcome contrast.

“Strawberry?” Harry offers as if on cue, posed perfectly. “They’re my new thing.”

Louis stares, finally having gathered himself and shut the door behind him, his beanie falling off, his sweatshirt hanging in disarray, and his bag piled beside him on the floor.

“Harry,” he says, shocked, his voice light with surprise as he stares at the utterly unexpected scene before him. “You’ve come back.”

Harry smiles in response, perfect and charming, but it’s not altogether disingenuous, so Louis smiles, too.

And immediately Louis feels happy beyond understanding, but also sort of bewildered and confused, so he mumbles, “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” as he stares, still absorbing the details of the situation.

Harry? Red suit? Strawberries? In autumn? Harry? Back? Happy?

“They’re delicious,” Harry replies to a question that wasn’t asked, and plucks a strawberry from the bowl and brings it to lips whose hue matches the fruit in question perfectly. With a smirky grin that paves the way for so many questions, he bites into the fruit, juices dancing on the soft padding of his lips, before he pops the thing entirely into his mouth, ripping the stem off delicately and flicking it to the side.

Louis watches the movement, before shuffling his feet.

He doesn’t want to break the vibe of the good mood. Honestly. He doesn’t.

But he’s prickling with curiosity and worry still, his mind still hung up on that mysterious phone call that pulled Harry away in the first place, so his smile quiets as he takes in Harry’s face which bears the relaxation and quiet happiness that Louis had glimpsed last he saw him. It’s the closest thing to ‘genuinely’ happy Harry’s been, and it’s wonderful. But it also quietly scares Louis, because inconsistency seems to be a theme in Harry’s life, and happiness is well and good, but how does it react when faced with troubled waters?

He may be happy now, but what if something happens? Will he crash? Hard? Come tumbling down to the ground in a fiery wreck?

Louis doesn’t know.

So he regards Harry before he dares out a, “Where’ve you been? What happened?” in the most casual tone he can manage. Which isn’t very casual at all, his words squeaking at the end the tiniest bit.

Harry swallows, his eyes beginning to reflect something more real at the words. He looks down at the bowl in his hands as his lips fade into an expressionless line. He doesn’t move.

Louis sighs, pulling his beanie over his head a bit more, before rubbing a hand over his eyes. He really needs to stop being so forward with Harry—the boy can’t take it.

“All right, look,” he says, walking up until he’s standing directly in front of Harry, hands illustrating his words, and he notices him take an almost imperceptible step backwards. “I know I don’t have any right to know. I know that it’s none of my business and I’ve no right to keep asking you all of these questions that you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry for it, I am. I’m nosy—too nosy for anybody’s sake—and I wish I could say that I won’t keep asking, but I will, and I’m sorry for all those times, too. But can you at least just, like, let me know that it’s all good? So I know that I don’t have to worry about you falling into a stupor or summat. Cuz I…” He drifts off, searching for words. Harry’s shoulders tense, his brow furrowing further as he waits. “…I need a tutor awfully bad. And, see, it’s such short notice to get another one. So, just because I need you as my tutor, can you just let me know if everything’s good?” Louis finishes, and he smiles as he ducks to catch Harry’s eye, immediately feeling the weight of the conversation lift fractionally.

Harry huffs out a breathy noise (a snort? a chortle? could it be?), shifting his weight as he lifts his gaze to the wall. His face is light, maybe a little amused, but the words still aren’t coming, and he bears all the shifting weight of one who is still largely uncomfortable.

So Louis tries again.

“What if we speak in code, yeah?”

Harry finally looks at him. An eyebrow raises.

“If things aren’t, like, _good_ , hand me one strawberry. But if things are good, hand me two strawberries.” He pauses. “With full stems.” He smiles. “I’ll even eat them and everything.”

And a single laugh escapes Harry, almost shattering the lightbulbs in the room, not to mention Louis’ vital organs as he mentally documents the date that he managed to procure a proper laugh from Harry Styles.

“They both need stems?” he clarifies, eyebrow still raised.

“Oh yes, absolutely,” Louis nods, feeling his cheeks twitch as Harry looks down at the strawberries thoughtfully.

He slowly begins rummaging in the bowl, his fingers delicately picking at the fruit, carefully inspecting each one before finally housing two in the protective bowl of his palm. His eyes averted downward, he offers them to Louis, hand outstretched and patient.

Louis breathes out a small stream of relief before he finally observes the offering, wrinkling his nose as he stares at them—one is fine, stem and all, but one…resembles a raisin. That’s been digested.

“Uhm,” he starts, poking at the purplish lump lying in Harry’s palm with his forefinger. “Care to explain why you chose this one? In the mood to give me a food-borne illness, are we?”

Harry’s smile (yes, he’s still smiling—having his father returned to him has done the boy _wonders_ ) twitches at the corner. “I like that one,” he drawls in protest. “I chose him specifically.”

Louis looks up. “Him?”

“Aloysius.”

“Aloysius,” Louis repeats in a deadpan. “You named a shriveled strawberry Aloysius.”

Harry shines proudly, looking up to meet Louis’ gaze. “Yeah,” he nods with bright eyes and a half-smile.

“Right then. Just checking,” Louis says, and offers his palm.

Without another word Harry dumps his treasures, before taking back his hand and dusting it off on his trousers, seeming pleased.

Louis smiles, mostly to himself, as he stares at the fruit in his hand. He’s never been happier to see strawberries in his life.

“I’m glad, you know,” he finally says.

Harry looks up.

So does Louis.

“That everything’s good,” he explains, motioning towards the strawberries.

Understanding blooms upon Harry’s features and he nods. “Me, too,” he says quietly, and the shadow of a smile still haunts his face which only presses Louis’ lips into a bigger grin.

There’s a moment where Louis’ still holding the two strawberries, staring at Harry and feeling strangely…uplifted? His feelings are rocketed upward, encompassing him in a way that is both alien and familiar, and all he can do is stare at the boy before him, resplendent in vermilion and resembling someone so very _human_ and so very _real_ , the facades broken down in so many ways, it almost makes Louis want to reach out and touch him, just to assure himself that this is reality and not the twisted makings of his own mind.

But before he can entertain such silly thoughts any further, Harry’s turning away, setting down the bowl gently, his head bowing with the motion and his back facing Louis.

“But why?” he suddenly asks, and his creased brow is back. Which. Doesn’t frustrate Louis as much as it makes his heart thump unsteadily, wearily.

“Why what?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Why does that make you glad?”

And there it is. That quiet, questioning voice of Harry’s that always manages to shatter Louis’ bones.

He gapes, at a loss for the abrupt and genuine curiosity of the question, before he slides his hands into his back pockets, rocking on his heels a bit, adopting the most nonchalance he can gather.

“Because. I really need a tutor.”

A short, small laugh escapes Harry  again (Louis thinks the sun may have popped that time) before he presses it back inside, a smile present on the lips that he casts downward, tucking into his chest and shielding away from the world. Which really isn’t right. He shouldn’t be hiding his smiles. He should be lifting his chin into the air and lighting the world with them.

“And. You know.” Louis pauses, dares to say the next words. “You’re a mate.”

There. He said it.

And, just like that, the mood is altered.

Harry turns, looks fully at Louis, eyebrows pinched once more.

“Louis…I don’t have ‘mates.’”

At that, Louis releases a puff of air, rocking harder on his heels as he shakes his head with enough exaggeration to belittle his internal disappointment. “Well, I dunno, Curly. That’s going to be pretty awkward to tell the lads.” He chances a glance at Harry who is looking down at the bowl of strawberries, quiet and guarded, body half-turned away from Louis. He can feel it—can feel the line they’re balancing on. He knows that one overeager move will send Harry scattering in the opposite direction, shielding himself from Louis’ intrusions that are too much, too large, too forceful for a boy who can barely grasp the concept that someone might just care about his presence in the world. So Louis just smiles easily and finishes with a musical, “And, you know, that’s not even mentioning how rude it is that you would say that when I’m standing right in front of you, declaring myself as ‘mate.’”

Harry glances up at him.

Louis waits for an absolution.

“Aren’t you going to eat the strawberries?” Harry asks, and Louis blinks because, no, that was not what he was expecting, but...it works. Because Harry’s still in the room and he’s not slamming doors or lowering the cages behind his eyes.

“Of course I am,” Louis says immediately despite his surprise, and throws them into his mouth without a second’s hesitation, resolutely ignoring the garish wrinkles of Aloysius. He chews, purposeful at first, then thoughtful, the flavor filling his mouth. “You know, I must say,” he says, mouth full, “This is probably the best regurgitated strawberry I’ve ever eaten.”

Harry’s face immediately erases of the trepidation and discomfort it had previously housed, a small, almost silly smile delicately painting it instead. “It’s not regurgitated!” he insists, and it bears such a childlike undertone that Louis feels his own smile warm.

“Is it an owl pellet, then?” he continues, spurred on, and Harry’s short, quick snort cuts through the room and the air particles, leaving Louis’ skin abuzz, the very earth abuzz. “Is that what you were doing while you were away? Finding your Hedwig? And feeding me her remains?”

At that Harry rolls his eyes, but his lips are still quirked, and he begins striding towards his china cabinet. “Let’s go outside. We’ll hold our tutoring session another time. It’s a beautiful day,” he says without transition, opening the glass doors and inspecting his teacups.

Louis starts, glancing out the window at the murky gray sky and freezing rain. “Er.”

“It’s perfect weather for a picnic,” Harry continues, before selecting two teacups and shutting the doors gently. He turns around expectantly, eying Louis. “What say you?”

“I say that you’re bloody mad and that it’s fucking freezing outside. And wet. And we might die if we have a picnic,” Louis says, still feeling the remnants of the chill from his short walk here. Fuck no, he was not going to have a picnic at the end of November. Besides, wasn’t Harry supposed to be a dainty creature, anyway?

Harry sighs, rolling his eyes as he plucks the bowl of strawberries back up off the table. “Don’t be boring.”

“I am not boring!” Louis squawks, as Harry offers him a small, red teacup with a small sparrow painted on the side.

“Your favorite cup, correct?” he asks, the object sitting in his extended palm, and Louis nods, grumbling as he accepts the offering with muttered assent.

“I’m not having a picnic outside with you,” Louis says in a tone that’s very final, letting the teacup dangle unfeelingly from his fingertips.

“Yes you are. I love the rain.”

“Funny, because I don’t. I think I may even hate it. And besides, I’m not even sure that qualifies as rain—I think it’s closer to the ‘snow’ spectrum, to be honest. Given that it’s _winter_.”

But Harry doesn’t even hear, already marching out the door.

“Hey! Where are you going?!” Louis demands, trotting to catch up.

“Zayn’s,” Harry responds immediately, head held high.

“For what?”

“The picnic. I want full attendance.” What in the--?

“Are you high right now?”

“Of course not,” Harry replies simply, and the conversation dies as they round the corner to Zayn’s tower.

Louis follows behind Harry’s large strides as they take the stairs, Louis’ mind sputtering in confusion (because what??) until finally they reach Zayn’s door and press inside, finding Zayn, Liam, and Niall, all sprawled about in various positions of boredom and/or exhausted stress.

“My loves!” Harry greets grandiosely, spreading his arms in welcome. Louis rolls his eyes from behind him. “You are cordially invited to a picnic. Outside. Right now. Bring your own teacup.”

Louis snorts. “As if anybody’s actually going to agr—“

“You know, that’s not a half bad idea,” Zayn says from his spot at the table, surrounded by mountains of books and binders.

… What the actual fuck?

Zayn then looks over to Liam, questioning, gauging his reaction.

“Absolutely not,” Liam replies automatically, and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. “Do you know how much I have to do?? I haven’t even started my spreadsheet, Zayn. My spreadsheet,” he repeats with urgency.

“I’m with Payne. Have you been outside? It’s fucking freezing. No thanks. I’d rather stay here,” Niall says, sprawled on the couch, flicking through his phone.

Zayn rolls his eyes as Harry pouts and Louis performs a mental victory dance.

And then Zayn’s standing, tugging Liam’s arms until he’s in a standing position as well. “Come on, love. You could use the fresh air. It’ll be fun. Then for the rest of the night we can do your spreadsheet, yeah?”

Liam pouts, lip protruding ridiculously as he stares into Zayn’s soothing pools that some would call ‘eyes.’ Louis can see him relenting (which, just great), until finally his shoulders sag in defeat and he sighs, nodding tiredly.

“All right,” Liam says, looking over to Harry. “I’m in.”

Harry positively beams.

“Yeah, well I’m not,” Niall mumbles from the couch.

“I’ll buy you strippers, alcohol, and mention your impeccable drumming abilities to my father’s friends,” Harry bribes, bored and impatient.

And Niall shoots up. “Picnic it is, then.”

“Oh, fucking excellent,” Louis says, throwing his arms up as the boys begin to assemble into warmer clothes, stuffing on stylish jumpers and sliding their feet into thick, leather shoes. He looks down at his own outfit—maroon skinny jeans, white Converse, and a gray zip-up hoodie that’s not exactly made of the thickest of materials—and not only feels under-dressed, but inadequately suited for the weather. “I’m going to die of hypothermia,” he deadpans, eyes narrowed at Harry.

“That’s why you have to drink tea,” Harry explains as if that’s an explanation at all, and Louis just gives him a look as the boy begins to fuss around Zayn’s rooms and…actually begins to make a pot of tea.

Louis massages his temples.

What even is his life?

**

They’re outside, it’s spitting freezing rain (or, as Niall likes to inexplicably call it—“Ice Giant wee”) and the only fucking reason Louis is participating in this shambles is because it makes Harry’s face light up like a Christmas tree which is something Louis’ never seen before, and it sort of helps to chase the chill away in a very small, silent, selfless way. Because fuck, if Harry’s finally back and his dad’s returned, and he’s seemingly happy and in good spirits and wants to have a goddamn picnic in the dead of winter, then…fuck. There really isn’t much else to say, is there.

At least Liam’s brought the football. Much to Harry’s horror.

“It’s supposed to be a picnic,” he insists with a whine, standing in his red suit, teacup in his hand, as the icy wind tumbles his curls and paints his features in soft pink glows.

But everybody ignores him, instead splitting into two teams—Zayn and Liam VS. Louis, Niall, and Harry—and begins kicking the ball expertly back and forth.

They play for the better part of an hour, running around in the cold, gray air that leaves their jumpers wet and their shoes muddy. It’s invigorating, urging frozen limbs into life, and Louis finds himself almost appreciating Harry having ushered them outside in the wintry chill. With pale skin and flushed, blotchy cheeks, their gasped, laughing breath creates soft plumes in the frigid air, filling the silence of the courtyard and making everything brighter as they slap hands and bums, offering praises and taunts with each play. It’s a good game: Liam is brilliant as always—“I’m on the team, you know.”—and Zayn is unsurprisingly skilled, as is Niall, and of course Louis is certainly no stranger to the sport. But Harry…well.

Harry attempts to kick the ball once, and the one time he does, he goes flying to the ground, his foot never coming close to the ball. Not even _close_.

“Shit,” he hisses from the icy grass, inspecting his palms and dirtied suit. Of course he insisted on keeping his suit on for the ‘picnic.’ Of course.

“Better luck next time, Styles!” Niall shouts jovially, jogging to the other side of the lawn, Zayn and Liam on either side.

Louis’ about to follow, but there’s something very endearingly pathetic about Harry’s crumpled figure on the ground, his pigeon toes quirked at odd angles, grass and mud stains streaking almost every inch of his once pristine suit. There’s a pout on his face, silent and upset, and Louis sighs as the boy struggles to gain his footing.

“Here, Curly. Before you hurt yourself” he says, offering his hand, unable to shield away his smile.

Harry pauses, peering up at him with grumpy, furrowed eyes, and Louis can’t tell if it’s the cold or the embarrassment that flushes his cheeks, but he finally accepts the offered hand and rises to his feet unsteadily.

“Football is stupid,” he mutters, his hand immediately finding his watch and rubbing the space there absently. He averts his gaze to his feet.

“Football is fun,” Louis corrects.

“I’m no good at it,” Harry scowls, looking off in the distance. “I never was.” He glances at Louis who is still catching his breath as he listens, his beanie clutching on for dear life, hands on his hips. Harry continues, low and hesitant. “I was never really a sporty sort of person. My father wanted me to be, I think, but… Like, even at school I just..” he stutters in his rumble, picking at the dying grass with the toe of his boot, hand still clutching his wrist. Finally, he looks up at Louis, eyes very nearly miserable and very helpless. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

And Louis bursts into laughter. Which makes Harry’s face crack the tiniest bit, his lips twitching upward.

“It’s not funny,” he argues, but his lips twitch further, and Louis can only cackle, head thrown back and arms wrapped around his stomach as Harry tries his hardest to maintain a scowl.

“OI! Lads! You coming or what?!” Liam shouts suddenly, splitting the air between them.

“Yeah, yeah! Just a minute!” Louis shouts, his laughter finally dying down.

 Harry’s gaze returns back to the ground. He chews at his lip.

“I can teach you, you know,” Louis says simply with a smile.

Harry looks up, cross. “Maybe I don’t want to be taught.”

Louis just shrugs. “So then ignore me. But I’ll teach you, anyway.”

Harry stares.

Louis takes that as a green light.

“All right, so, first off—your stance is all wrong. Here, you’ve got to shift your weight, just like this—“ Louis places his hands on Harry’s, urging his limbs to shift into the proper pose.

Taken aback, Harry’s eyes find his face, unblinking and direct, as Louis looks down to their feet, instructing Harry’s to move accordingly. But as Louis continues to speak, his hands still clutching gently onto Harry’s own, Harry’s eyes, intent on Louis, flicker with something indefinable, the planes of his face twisting with unease and, suddenly, he disengages himself from Louis’ grasp without an ounce of warning. Instantly his features grow distant and startled, his stare having flicked away from Louis’ face, now darting around the courtyard.

“I want to play a different game,” he suddenly announces, stepping away from Louis, voice off-kilter.

Louis blinks. Because…what just happened? He observes Harry—his fidgeting feet and hands that search for something to do.

“Uh, and what game would that be?” he asks, for lack of anything else to say, bringing his hands back to his sides and feeling a persistent stinging beneath his flesh at the sudden change. He’s faintly aware that the others are still waiting on them, shuffling around impatiently somewhere behind them on the lawn.

But before he receives an answer, Harry is already halfway across the courtyard.

“Harry!” he calls, but he never turns back, his stride purposeful.

And, well, shit.

“Where’s he off to?” Liam asks as soon as Louis reconvenes with them.

“Is he fussed because he’s such shit at football?” Niall asks bluntly.

Louis sighs, pulling his beanie tighter over his ears. “I’m not sure. He just sort of…took off. Said he wanted to play a new game.”

“Hide and Seek.”

All eyes turn to Zayn.

“I’m sorry?” Louis asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“He’s playing Hide and Seek,” he clarifies smoothly, nodding in the direction Harry’d taken off in. “He wants us to find him. He does this all the time.”

Right. Of course.

“Fuck’s sake. Well let’s just find the cunt then so we can go back indoors. It’s fucking freezing out here,” Niall complains, tugging on the hood of his sweatshirt.

And they disperse.

**

It isn’t long before Harry’s been found. And, as is custom, he is now deemed “It” or whatever, so now they’ve all got to hide like a bunch of scattered mice (because who can say no to Harry when he’s laughing, his cheeks licked with the cold, his eyes shining with all the sunlight that’s been trapped by the clouds) and Louis is sort of incredibly sick of this game already as he sits uncomfortably in a tree, his ass throbbing and muddied, his hands scraping against the wet bark.

Because, yes, Louis has accomplished something new: he’s successfully climbed a tree today. And he’s pretty sure that would earn him a badge somewhere. But he can’t quite give two fucks about that right now because Harry’s ‘It,’ Harry’s nowhere to be seen, Louis is cold, and Louis wants to go back inside and devour a pot of hot soup, his adrenaline having officially departed from his bloodstream and leaving glaciers there instead.

Luckily it’s then that Harry’s curious little head pokes out from down below as he cautiously steps forward, searching around the yard with wide, penetrating eyes.

He watches the boy through the bare branches of his perch as he cluelessly pads around, inspecting the tree trunk, before moving along.

Which. No. Louis wants to be found, goddammit. It’s _cold_ out here.

So he noisily clears his throat.

Harry whirls around. “I heard that!” he challenges, but his eyes spin aimlessly, searching for the source blindly, never once thinking to look up.

Louis sighs, long and suffering. “You do realize that you’re terrible at this game, don’t you?” he says, one foot dangling from the tree branch.

Harry’s head snaps up, and immediately they lock eyes.

“What are you doing up _there_?” he asks, surprised.

“I have no idea,” Louis grunts, shifting uncomfortably. “Worse yet…I have no idea how to get down.” He glances downward—which really isn’t that far, to be fair—before slinging his other leg over the side of the branch, anticipating a hopped descent.

“I didn’t take you for the climbing type,” Harry says, watching Louis’ unsteady movements.

“That’s because I’m not the climbing type.” He slides nearer to the edge of the branch, feet dangling farther down treacherously. He’s probably going to die.

Harry quiets, watching Louis. “You’re the football type, though.”

“I’m not really that, either.” He braces himself with one hand against the trunk, ready to plummet. He awkwardly hops down, almost catching his foot on a sneaky limb, and stumbles to the ground in the messiest, clunkiest way imaginable, almost collapsing instantly.

He fucking hates trees.

It’s only after he’s firmly planted safely on the grass, balance restored, that he notices the two large hands that are steadying him on either side of his waste. They’re gentle, feather light, and…they belong to Harry. Harry Styles.

Louis looks from the hands to the face that possesses them—which is much closer now, Harry having apparently rushed to catch Louis during his tumble—and just stares at the delicate features and wide stormy eyes, swirling and impenetrable like the sky above, a range of emotions flitting through his own blood cells, his sides immediately warming to the soft touch that is so unexpected and so oddly jarring.

But then Harry removes his hands and takes a smooth step backwards, his face masked and calm. He remains silent, only the overcast stirrings of his eyes filling the space between them.

“Thanks, mate,” Louis says in a tone that sounds more strangled than he’d like, and he feels his face smiling, cheeks warming completely against his control. He wants to make a joke about manhandling or insist that he doesn’t need any help from nobody, but instead he just continues to smile and stare at Harry, whose red suit is smeared so pitifully with mud and grass streaks, damp from the icy rain and sticking to his skin. His skin is ghostly pale, almost blending seamlessly with the white, weeping atmosphere, the vein in his neck protruding ever so slightly, and he’s got a stray dead, crispy leaf tucked into his cinnamon curls behind his left ear.

He looks like autumn.

Louis unthinkingly reaches out and gently pulls the leaf out, careful not to pull any hairs with it, Harry’s eyes steadily watching his movements, guarded, but allowing the gesture all the same, expressionless and a little dark, maybe a little uneasy.

Louis shows him the leaf, once extracted. “Leaf,” he explains unnecessarily, voice sheepish. His skin feels itchy. So does his throat.

Harry’s gaze continues to cut him.

And then suddenly Harry’s plucking the leaf from Louis’ hand and flinging it into the air with a grand, swooping arm, a cheeky half smile formed on his face that bursts through the odd _(odd)_ mood and gloom, settling the vibe into something more comfortable.

Both heads watch as the leaf tumbles through the air, falling lazily and swirlingly until it lands on the damp, graying ground, camouflaged amongst the mud and mole hills.

“Persephone has returned to Hades.”

And that’s the last think Louis is expecting, so he blinks as he turns to Harry, eyebrows shot in the air. “Pardon?”

 Harry turns to him, moist, clustered lashes blinking calmly. “The last leaf has fallen,” he says simply, pointing to the ground. “Demeter’s weeping because her daughter’s returned to the underworld.”

Louis continues to stare.

But Harry doesn’t mind, continuing in his slow, languid drip of a voice, eyes faintly pinched with a dreamy amusement. “Demeter controls the crops and the yield and the seasons. The weather reflects her feelings.” Harry looks up at the spitting, gray sky, squinting against the muted light and precipitation. “That’s why everything’s gray and dead right now. She’s sad because she’s lonely. She misses her daughter.”

Louis watches him, watches his lips form the words from memory.

“And cold as well? Because she’s unhappy?” he asks, eyes flitting across Harry’s face.

Harry nods, still staring up at the sky.

In some, inexplicable way, that pangs Louis’ insides. And while it hasn’t anything to do with Harry, really—the boy seems the closest to happy that Louis has ever seen—it still unsettles him, sitting with him strangely in his stomach.

Louis purses his lips before walking over to the fallen leaf, plucking it up from the ground.

Harry’s head snaps to him. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping hold of it, then.”

“Why?” he asks, startled.

“In case she ever misses Persephone, I’ll show it to her,” he explains as if this is a logical conversation. But Harry doesn’t laugh or roll his eyes, so he doesn’t either.  

“But won’t that make her sad?” Harry protests, childlike and curious.

Louis shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’ll just serve as a reminder that she’ll be coming back before too long.”

And then Harry grins, procuring enough light for the entire universe and momentarily causing Louis to forget that the sun isn’t even out at all. It's sort of wondrous. 

But then:

“Lads! I’m freezing me nuts off!”

Niall is clomping towards them, soggy and panting, hair in complete disarray.  “Are we still playing this fucking game or did one of you fucking idiots forget to mention that you’ve been found?”

Harry and Louis glance at each other.

“That’s what I thought. Now fuck’s sake, come on! The lads are waiting.”

And with one last glance exchanged, they march back towards Zayn’s rooms.

**

The rest of the day is good.

They study sporadically—or, rather, Liam studies sporadically—and lie about, having changed into warm, dry clothes that snuggle their limbs. Harry lights scented candles (“Strawberry scented, of course. Anything else would ruin me.”) and Zayn breathes cigarettes and doodles on everyone’s skin in black Sharpie. There’s copious amounts of food and game systems and jokes that are only funny because of the way each other laughs about them, and everything feels sort of wonderful.

And Louis feels happy.

Happy, as he currently stands by Zayn’s fireplace, attempting to make sense of his unkempt hair—having finally discarded his sad, sad beanie that now smells of grass sweat—when suddenly Harry ambles up to him, teacup in hand, now wearing an immaculate rouge jumper and brown-black trousers. Which really shouldn’t work as well as it does.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he greets, and takes a sip from his teacup, eying Louis’ movements in the mirror. “Keeping your hair a bit of company?”

“I think it may be the other way around, to be honest,” Louis mutters, attempting to sort the mess of strands. “And it’s keeping me too much company at that.”

Harry smirks, continuing to watch. His gaze is calm and observant, and Louis does his very best to continue his ministrations and not catch those eyes reflected back at him. Even if he sort of wants to. Even if he’s already feeling a random, pleased smile pushing against his mouth just due the mere fact that Harry’s willingly walked up to him. As if this is a thing they do.

As if they were mates.

“I’m hosting a party tomorrow,” he says suddenly, lips large and red, matching his jumper. “Due to it being the end of term, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You’re allowed to come.”

“Oh, am I? I’m allowed?” Louis says, eyebrows raised, turning to face Harry now, whose lips twitch. “Funny, the way you say that. As if that has any bearing upon whether I’ll be there or not.”

Harry rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but his lips twitch even more.

“You know I’m not good at being told what to do,” Louis reminds him with a smirk, returning back to the mirror.

“Yes. I know.”

And it’s good.

**

Eventually, Niall, Louis, and Harry begin the trek back to their rooms.

Niall walks between Harry and Louis, their arms all linked together as Niall urges them along, skipping like a madman (did he drink when nobody was looking?) and Harry is smiling quietly to himself as he strolls, arm being tugged by Niall, while Louis sneaks glances at him and makes loud, catty jokes to distract from said glances.

Then Niall suddenly sprints ahead without explanation, clicking his heels and being the very portrait of a fucking leprechaun.

“You’re such a fucking stereotype!” Louis shouts to him and Harry actually giggles at that. Louis stops, turns to him and lowers his hands from where they’d been cupped over his mouth, megaphone style, and he stares at him, startled.

A giggle? Harry? What? Is he tripping on hallucinogenics?

He looks on as Harry watches Niall with something that could be labeled as sweet, simplistic amusement, or even delight. Which makes Louis smile broadly before also turning to face Niall—who is now running in circled patterns along the pathway.

“I should probably chase after the little bastard,” Louis muses, glancing at Harry again, still smiling.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“But, um, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Louis asks, clearing his throat with indifference and pulling on his fringe.

“Yeah,” Harry says, half-distractedly. “Yeah, meet at my rooms at five, promptly.”

“So six, then?” Louis teases.

Harry smirks, eyes trapped on Niall in the distance.

The mood is peaceful enough, the sky is starry enough, and Niall’s shouts and madman antics are just comical enough to keep everything on the less-than-serious side, so Louis clears his throat, scratches at the back of his neck, and continues.

“But, what are you, like, doing tomorrow during the day? Like, before that?” he asks. He bites at his lip, adjusts his beanie.

Harry looks confused now, brow furrowing, as he turns to look at him. “What do you mean? During the day? I’m not sure.” He surveys Louis. “Why.”

“Well, I dunno. Niall’s probably gonna be, ya know, _Niall_ all day. Practicing the drums and whathaveyou. Smoking. Drinking. Shouting. Laughing. Masturbating.” Another laugh escapes Harry, short and abrupt, before he settles a lightly composed face back to Louis who grins in response. He could easily see himself getting used to this. “And, well, I thought our little arrangement was working, so. Would it be terribly troublesome if you housed me for another day? Just for a couple hours while I complete some assignments and jot down a few notes? I’ll bring strawberry wine or something. If it’s still your thing, that is.”

“I think I’m over strawberries, actually,” is all Harry says, blinking.

“Oh, good. They’re more a summer fruit, aren’t they? You need something more wintery, something to go with the season.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Yeah. Like…I dunno. Something cozy.”

Harry sighs, casting his eyes upward. “I don’t choose my interests, Louis, they choose me.”

And maybe it’s because the day was so good, or maybe it’s because of the way Harry says his name, but Louis decides that, maybe, Harry really is a bit charming when he’s not spewing rehearsed lines or words of fleeting pleasure. Maybe he is, naturally, a bit endearing. And maybe there’s a lot more genuine life in him than Louis thought. Life that just needs to be nurtured, cared for, paid attention to. And that maybe Harry isn’t so far away, maybe isn’t lost in the dark corners.

Or, maybe he was and just isn’t anymore.

“Well, perhaps I can persuade them to take a liking to you, then.  I’m a very influential being,” Louis smiles.

Harry’s eyes return to Louis. “Perhaps. Till tomorrow then, Tomlinson.”

“Bright and early, Styles.”

Then they exchange one last parting nod—Louis smiling and Harry looking out in the night sky—and Louis begins walking away, following the direction of the now out-of-sight Niall.

But then he pauses, turning back to look at Harry whose hands are stuffed in the pockets of his long, black coat as he gazes up into the heavens.

 “It’s good to see you smiling, Curly. It’s almost unnerving and alien, to be honest—like seeing a nice pair of legs on a chimp—“ Harry laughs _again_ , loud and abrupt and short, “—but it’s good.”

And Harry doesn’t reply, just sends along a shake of the head and a bitten smile before turning and ambling away, long legs carrying him into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PUNCH ME IN THE FACE. I'M SO MAD. I write too much.
> 
> Also. Heeeyyyyyy! Guess what? This chapter's song is: "The Bleeding Heart Show" by The New Pornographers. Woot! 
> 
> Also. SO MANY OF YOU HAVE DONE SUCH SKILLED THINGS OMG. When I come home from work, I'm going to link y'all to the incredible talents of my gorgeous darlings. And if one of you have any artwork or song recs or trailers or whateverthehell else you want to share with me, well then, I will probably die of happiness. Don't be shy! :) (mizzwilde for the tumblr)
> 
> ALSO!! I will reply to each comment left as soon as I return from work bc I don't have time right now but ohhhh how I love chatting with you all. <3 *smooch*


	23. XXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis finds something.

“Why the fuck are you awake this early?”

Louis blinks at the question, having just emerged from his room fully dressed (he chose a very wintery jumper on occasion of it being December 1st), and pauses as he takes in the image of Niall, half adorned in golf clothes, smoking a cigar, and pouring himself a glass of what Louis hopes is grape juice.

“Why are you?” Louis counters, searching for his shoes, resolutely ignoring the question. Because no, he is not going to admit to Niall that he’d been planning out the day ever since they’d gotten home last night, and no, he’s certainly not going to tell him of his plans to fetch Harry some morning coffee before he goes to his rooms.

And no, he’s definitely not going to address the fact that it’s only eight in the morning and yet he fully intends on arriving at Harry’s door within the hour. And why that might be considered bad manners. Or obsessive. Those issues definitely aren’t going to be addressed.

“I never went to bed,” Niall smirks in response, downing his glass of burgundy whateverthefuck.

“And why ever not?”

He shrugs, refilling his glass. “I went out after you went to bed.”

“Again? Have you ever actually touched a book before? Just curious,” Louis asks, throwing him a pointed look as he slides on his shoes, one by one, eyes already searching for his jacket and scarf.

“I’m sure I have.” Niall pauses, wipes his mouth, and a tiny burp escapes him. “Let’s get breakfast. I’m hungry,” he then states in a very final tone, glancing at his Rolex with lightly pink eyes.

“Can’t,” Louis says, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket—which was behind the couch somehow—and carefully avoiding Niall’s expectant eyes. “I’ve—er—I’ve got to study.”

“At half past eight,” Niall deadpans. “Really?”

Fuck.

Louis clears his throat, winds the scarf around his neck. “Yep.”

Niall watches him, hands splayed on the counter, his hair scattered yet mysteriously grease-free. His cheeks are flushed rosy and his eyes are unblinking, boring into Louis’ every movement.

“No,” he finally says simply, still watching Louis. “Food first. I don’t feel like eating alone.”

Louis sighs, long and suffering, before finally meeting Niall’s firm gaze. “I’m serious, Ireland. I have to study.”

“But you’re not actually going to study.”

“And what makes you say that.”

“Because you don’t wake up this early for studying. Especially if I haven’t even touched the piano.”

Louis looks sharply to him then, eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you telling me that you’re fully aware that that bloody piano wakes me up? And yet you still continue to play it?”

Niall grins, easy and blissful. “I’ll never tell.”

“Of fucking course,” Louis breathes, rolling his eyes and walking towards the door, fully intending to ignore Niall and just start his day, his mind only on one thing: seasonal lattes.  

“I saw you chatting up with Harry a lot yesterday. And last night as we walked home,” Niall suddenly says, and he’s still at the counter, peering at Louis with careful eyes and bold shoulders.

And fuck. He isn’t going to let this go, is he?

“You mean when you were running about like a madman?” Louis asks, begrudgingly halting his stride and turning to face Niall, hands in pockets, the weight of his bag pressing into his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Niall grins. His eyes glint. “I don’t suppose you’re going to his rooms or anything right now. Are you.”

“No!” Louis replies hotly and immediately, but the warmth of his skin feels incriminating, so he looks away from Niall’s widening grin.

“Then where are you going to study? The library opens at ten on Saturdays.”

Fuck. It does.

“I’m going to Starbucks. Picking up a festive beverage,” Louis says truthfully, before untruthfully finishing with, “I’ll probably just end up staying there.”

“Starbucks you say?” Niall asks, eyebrows raised. “Excellent. I could use a drink myself. I’ll go with you.”

“No!” Louis rushes again, envisioning the unwelcome explanations he’ll have to concoct when Niall witnesses his order for _two_ beverages. “You’ll distract me.”

Niall just assesses him, quiet and amused, maybe a little hungover, his hands still on the counter, before he shakes his head and thunders out a yawn, finally turning away. “Whatever, mate. I’ll see you when you get back. Assuming you’ll be back.”

“Of course.”

He nods, and Louis begins heading towards the door once more, keeping his stride even.

“Say hi to Harry for me,” Niall calls one last time just as Louis is shutting the door.

**

He just barely manages to push Harry’s door open, the tray with his two—surprisingly heavy—lattes taking up the majority of his hands. He’s got them both—the gingerbread and the eggnog lattes—and the air outside is crisp and faintly smells of smoke and cold, the scent clinging to his clothes and skin despite now having entered Harry’s warm, empty, softly lit rooms.

Empty.

Luckily, Louis’ growing more accustomed to Harry’s whereabouts, so the still atmosphere and vacant spaces don’t deter him, his focus shifting towards the lightly ajar bedroom door instead. The happy tinkling of a piano is heard.

Louis already feels his smile forming.

“I brought preseeeeents!” he practically sings as he bursts through the door, holding the tray above his head like Simba as Harry jerks, his hands falling from the keys before he spins around wildly.

His eyes connect immediately with Louis’, the shadows below suggesting an unrestful night, but they’re still as marginally relaxed and pleasant as yesterday, the corners of his lips barely pulling upward. A white sweater the texture of gossamer hangs off of the points of his shoulders and clings to his spindly, spidery legs, and his long, slender feet are adorned in black heeled boots, resting on the pedals of the piano. His hair is in artful disarray—much like his very soul, one could say—fluffed on top of his head in great, swooping curls that fall in his face and catch in his eyelashes and tickle his cheeks.

If he’s surprised to see Louis in his rooms this early in the morning—after all, Louis had never really specified just when exactly he planned on coming over—he doesn’t really show it, his face composed and calm, faintly tinged with a smile.

A smile that _Louis’_ caused.

Just because Harry’s _sees_ him.

 _Him_.

That probably shouldn’t feel as monumentally earth shattering as it does.

“Hi,” Harry says simply, quietly, before his eyes flick up to the tray Louis’ holding and his lips quirk higher. “What’s that?”

“Presents,” Louis repeats, watching the way Harry’s lips morph, his tired eyes alight. “Because you said you’re over strawberries, right?”

Harry nods, eyes returning to Louis’, the small smile present and watchful. The morning sun is streaming through the windows, setting the piano and the hairs on his delicate, pale arms on fire. Some of it gets trapped in his eyes.

“So I thought maybe a nice Christmas-y flavor could be your new thing,” Louis continues through his grin, feeling full of energy and just really fucking _excited_. Though he couldn’t explain why if he was asked. “So. Try these. Tell me your feelings about them. Let us discuss. Let us brainstorm. Because you have to start somewhere, don’t you?”

Slowly, Harry blinks, his smile fading. “My new thing? You brought these for _me_?”

“Correct.”

“Both of them?”

“Correct again.”

There’s a pause as Harry’s brow furrows as he inspects Louis’ face. "Did you need help with something, or…?”

Louis sighs, shaking his head as he makes his way over to Harry, plopping himself down beside him on the piano bench. Harry blinks, startled, sliding down the bench marginally, eying up Louis with almost-alarm.

“Jesus, Curly. I don’t have hidden agendas, you know. Ever consider that I just might want to be influencing you in good ways? After that travesty of an obsession—strawberries in November? Honestly?—you can’t really blame me for wanting to aid a helpless soul, can you. So here I am, willing test subjects at the wait, ready to change your life.”

“Change my life, you say,” Harry now smirks, shoulders already relaxing, and his hands settle back on the piano keys, already resuming their tapping out of a chipper tune.

“Yes, sir. Now. Try them,” Louis instructs, plucking them out of their tray and holding them out to Harry expectantly.

Upon Louis’ movement, Harry grins—full out, properly grins and it’s so large and toothy that it almost looks painful and definitely _feels_ painful when it hits Louis’ chest and vital organs—and turns to face him, immediately smacking his hands over his eyes, lips quirked and goofy.

And Louis blinks.

Because what the fuck is Harry doing?

“Er. Any reason you’re covering your eyes?” Louis asks, still holding the two cups and attempting to assess the situation.

“It’s a taste test. You’re not supposed to see what you’re tasting,” Harry explains languidly, words curled into his smile, and leaves it at that, his palms pressed into his eye sockets, the large sleeves of his jumper sliding down his slender arms.

And Louis continues to stare.

“You do realize they’re in identical cups, right? And you have no idea what’s in either one? So you technically can’t see them anyway?”

“They’ve got labels on them. With detailed descriptions,” Harry explains, and Louis glances at the barely visible stickers tucked under the coffee sleeves that read ‘Vt Ging Latte’ and ‘Vt Egg Latte’. Hardly descriptive, but. Whatever floats his boat.

“Right then,” he says, refusing to smile at Harry’s childlike pose and demeanor, instead offering the cup in his right hand to Harry’s awaiting lips. This is already going better than he anticipated.

Slowly he tips it forward, Harry’s head leaning back, and he slurps a tiny taste of the gingerbread latte. His face immediately scrunches.

“No,” is all he says, before turning to sniff at the other one.

“Alrighty then,” Louis chuckles, now tipping the left cup against Harry’s lips.

Another slurp is heard and then a small, satisfied smile forms on Harry.

“Much better,” he muses before dropping his hands, his large green eyes blinking back into life and observing the two cups before him.

“Is it obsession worthy?” Louis asks, watching as Harry inspects each label, taking both cups from Louis.

He nods, reading the stickers quietly. “I think so,” he says distractedly, before poking at the gingerbread latte. He glances up at Louis. “This one was gross,” he comments.

Louis shrugs. “I dunno about ‘gross.’ It’s all right. Not really my thing, but hey.”

“No, it’s really gross.” Harry’s eyes cast back down to the subject in question. He pauses briefly. “I kind of feel bad for it.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot into the air. “…You feel bad for a latte?”

“Yeah. A little bit.”

“And why is that, exactly?”

Harry glances up again, looking so, so inexplicably small and exhausted and unnervingly innocent with his wide eyes and wild hair and caricature lips. “Because it doesn’t taste as good as the other one. And it probably gets forgotten.”

Louis smiles, refusing to be endeared and at a loss for any other words as Harry returns the eggnog latte to Louis, keeping the gingerbread and clutching it tightly in his grasp.

“Gingerbread’s my new thing,” he suddenly declares, peeling off the lid and staring down at the frothy, amber liquid.

Of course it is.

“Because you don’t like it and feel bad for not liking it?” Louis asks, genuinely confused at the turn of events. Because how in the fuck does Harry’s brain even work? And why the fuck is it so infectiously quirky?

“Because I understand that it doesn’t have to be perfect to be liked,” Harry amends, and when he looks up, his face is bathed in a calm decisiveness that leaves Louis to wonder if he’s ever made such a strong opinion so quickly in his own life. He almost feels conviction-less.

Then again.

“I know the feeling,” Louis says, eggnog still in hand.

There’s a moment where their eyes are clicked together, staring quietly yet simultaneously not-so-quietly, before Harry looks back into the surface of his coffee, and Louis looks into his.

“Well then,” he says, interrupting the silence, and Harry swirls the foam with his finger, listening. “I guess eggnog will be _my_ new thing then.”

Immediately Harry’s head shoots up.“ _Your_ new thing?”

“Yeah. Mine. This school’s big enough for two obsessive personalities,” Louis smiles, tipping back his drink and taking a gulp.

Harry watches the movement, eyes narrowing into a glare. “I’m not sure if it is.”

“Course it is. Now. Time to study!” Louis sings, and slugs his shoulder bag onto the bench, ignoring Harry’s death stare. He doesn’t bother opening it though. Not when he still has a full cup of coffee to devour. And not when it’s not even nine.

Fuck, why did he come here so early again?

“Aren’t you going to sit in your chair?” Harry asks, eying both the bag and Louis distastefully as they hog the majority of the piano bench, leaving little room for Harry’s slight, sinewy frame.

Louis grins immediately (‘ _your_ chair’) before he shakes his head, cracking his knuckles distractedly and plonking a key.  “I like pianos. And their benches.”

“You do?”

“No,” Louis reconsiders almost immediately. “I actually hate them. But I want to watch you play, all the same.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise at that, but his face reveals nothing as he begins tapping out a melody. “You and the rest of the world,” he says, his fingers picking up pace.

“Meaning?” Louis asks, watching his hands.

“That I’m a splendid pianist,” Harry grins impishly. “I’m excellent with my hands.”

“You’re an idiot,” Louis responds, unimpressed. “An utter idiot.”

“Hey.”

“What? You deserved that.” Harry glares at the words but continues to play as Louis’ eyes get lost in the movement. “And don’t expect me to ask you teach me how to play or anything. Niall already tried and it didn’t even come close to working.”

“Even if you did ask, I wouldn’t. I don’t teach.”

“You said the same thing before you started tutoring me. Look where that got you.”

“Shut up.”

“Thank you, Curly, I hope you have a nice day, too.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he laughs.

Louis might memorize the sound.

**

Harry’s been teaching Louis piano for the past hour. And it’s been going better than Louis expected it would.

Harry is surprisingly patient, his long fingers calmly finding the right keys and carefully showing Louis each chord, slowly describing each sound and purpose in a voice that is far more captivating than it should be, his syllables long and drawn out, his tone rich and deep, almost getting lost amongst the notes. He’s quiet and watchful too, almost curious, as Louis asks questions and dares to tinkle out a shaky melody, occasionally looking to Harry’s steady gaze for approval.  

All in all, it’s a surprisingly pleasant experience and Louis smiles and laughs in time to Harry’s horror-filled eyes each time Louis manages to coax a particularly hideous sound from the instrument.

“I’ve actually managed to remember something!” Louis exclaims excitedly, grinning at Harry in his sunny, crinkly way, and Harry’s grin stretches wider than it ever has before as he watches Louis’ hands on the piano.

“You’re not completely terrible,” he admonishes, but it’s said with _that_ smile, so Louis can’t do much more than laugh and swat at Harry’s hands, which play besides his own.

Once again his eyes catch sight of the ink peeking out from beneath Harry’s watch—as they have throughout the whole piano lesson—and Louis’ curiosity stirs at the ineligible writing. Because why does he even have a tattoo there if he always wears a watch there? What does it say? Why is it covered?

These are things Louis had never before realized he needed to know.  

They play a few more broken rounds of strung together lullabies before Louis finally gives into temptation and inquisitively taps his forefinger on the encrusted diamonds of Harry’s Chanel watch.

“So what’s this tattoo, then?” he asks bluntly, looking over to Harry, tucking his chin into his own shoulder, watching the boy’s reaction.

Which, of course, is that of a deer in headlights.

“Nothing,” Harry says immediately, retracting his hand, his face composing into silent stone as the piano quiets, the chords echoing into a faded peace.

Louis tilts his head, curious and inquiring, studying Harry’s profile as the boy in question looks down at the piano keys, the lines of exhaustion that are etched in his face somehow becoming more exaggerated.

“It’s all right, you know. I won’t judge you, or anything,” Louis says simply, swinging his legs.

The faintest smirk shows on Harry. “You judge everything about me,” he mumbles wryly.

“Only the things that deserve to be judged,” Louis replies unabashedly. “But, contrary to popular belief, I wouldn’t, like, hurt your feelings on purpose or anything. I’m not a mean person.”

Harry slides his fingers against the keys, head bent, curls tumbling down.

“I know that,” he finally says, quietly.

It lifts Louis’ heart in one swift motion. His smile probably grows, but he really can’t feel it, not when his head’s swimming in that odd way, so he just nudges Harry’s shoulder with his own, trying to catch his eye.

“Look, I don’t mean to pry. And you should never feel like you ever have to tell me anything. Even if I do want to know. And it drives me up a wall. Drives me up all the walls.” He smiles at Harry’s chuckle. “But, just for the record, you don’t have to, like, feel weird or whatever. Not with me.”

It feels good saying it, Louis notes, saying the things that have just quietly sat in the fibers of his skin and pathways of his brain—things that never shaped into their own words, just sat namelessly within him. But now that he’s constructed them into sentences and released them into the air…well. He feels accomplished somehow and it feels good. Right, even. Even if it means nothing to Harry, he’ll know that he’s said it, said that he cares in his own roundabout way.

He’s so lost in his newfound feelings of accomplishment and self-satisfaction, that it takes a moment to register Harry’s silent movements.

He’s taking off his watch.

Just like that.

His head is bowed, carefully sliding the leather out of the buckle before he finally pulls it free from his wrist—which looks so petite and naked without the weight of the clunky diamonds and the heavy scent of wealth.

And there, written in boldface and capital letters, are the words ‘I CAN’T CHANGE’. It’s not nearly as incriminating as Louis was lead to believe.

He glances up at Harry whose face is neutral as he stares at the words, barely angled in Louis’ direction.  

“I’m trying to decide if that’s a hopeful message or not,” Louis muses at last.

“Me too.”

The words sink into Louis’ skin. They sit there for awhile, Louis trying to decipher the meaning, trying to understand, trying to bear the inexplicable weight, all the while as Harry stares, quiet and almost peaceful, never moving a muscle.

“Don’t hide it,” Louis says at last, feeling at odds with the situation, but he means his words, says them with feeling.

“I have to. My—“ Harry stops abruptly, short and unexpected, before he seems to think better of it and suddenly continues, words careful. “My father doesn’t like it.”

Louis feels a flash bolt through his veins, feels the need to counter whatever it is that is being hinted at.

“I like it.”

At that, Harry looks up, eyes saturated in a powerful emotion that is still too alien to be defined. An emotion that Louis can see Harry physically trying to suppress away, keep at bay—but can’t.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, but his voice is petal soft and seems to echo and fade—much like the chords of the piano that still feel as if they’re lingering in the smallest particles of the air. And though there’s no smile, no laugh, no pleasant banter, it somehow feels like the softest moment that Louis has ever shared with Harry, and it leaves his innards pooled with honey and warmth, filling the hollowed spaces of his ribcage and the cracks in his barely mended bones.

“You’re welcome, Curly,” he smiles.

They stay that way for a few more moments, sitting quietly on the bench together, Louis’ bag untouched, Harry’s wrist resting on his lap.

Then, silently, Louis plucks a pen from his pocket. Because this tattoo is important to Harry, very important somehow, and Louis can feel Harry wishing it wasn’t. Which isn’t right, isn’t right at all. And though he knows nothing about the workings at hand, has no basis to assemble any sort of conclusion, the moment feels too personal, too _significant_ to ignore. So, wordlessly, he draws quotations on his own wrist, on the opposite arm, on the underside.

“There,” he says, feeling Harry’s eyes on him. “Ditto marks. Now neither of us can change.” He half smiles before daring a look at Harry. His face is impossible to read.

The silence that follows is long and stretched out, Harry never moving and Louis sitting there, beginning to wonder if his actions should’ve been a bit more thought out. Was that insensitive? Intrusive? Too much?

But then, finally, Harry relents into a small smile, observing Louis’ wrist quietly, before almost shyly bringing his own wrist to lay beside Louis’, their marks side by side, Louis’ hand palm up, Harry’s palm down. Almost, Louis thinks, as if itching to be clasped together.

Which is an odd thought for this time of day.

“Well, don’t we make quite the pair,” Louis smiles all the same, ignoring his thoughts.

“We can’t change,” Harry muses in a mumble, repeating Louis’ earlier sentiment.

Louis’ chest hammers a bit as they sit there, the wind outside rattling the windows.

“Don’t wear your watch tonight,” he finally says, and he feels Harry look over to him, his own eyes still glued to their wrists, side by side. “There’s simply no reason to hide your tattoo—you’ve had it permanently inked into your body, after all.”

He then meets Harry’s gaze, his eyes large and distinctly wreaking of ‘puppy.’ “I don’t want to have to explain it though. Like, if people ask.”

“You don’t _have_ to do anything.”

He looks back down. “They’ll find a way to force it out of me, I know it,” he mumbles, brows scowling.

A flare shoots through Louis. “I won’t ever let anybody force you to do anything.”

Harry looks up.

Louis meets his gaze.

And it feels significant. Somehow. Maybe, sort of, like a promise.

**

The rest of the day is, to put it simply, wonderful.

Harry makes them tea and sandwiches, Harry teaches Louis how to play simple songs on the piano, Harry plays the violin so he can show off, and Harry listens to Louis’ over exaggerated stories that are more laughable than engaging. They spend all day together, _all_ day, and not once are Louis’ books touched or opened. Instead, Louis enjoys every fucking moment, every second, and absorbs Harry’s dripping words and occasional clearings of his throat and his raspy chuckles and abrupt laughs and the way he sometimes tangles his long fingers in his hair and how he picks at his teeth after he eats for far longer than necessary—which should be disgusting but is somehow precious and real, causing Louis to stare fondly at the spectacle on the brief occasions where it doesn’t count.

And now they’re sat in Harry’s living room, splayed on his fine, ornamental chairs, having a very passionate argument.

“I’m sorry, but who introduced gingerbread into your life?” Louis asks, adamant and preening as he pours himself another glass of champagne.

Harry ponders, unwrapping a chocolate before popping it into his mouth, eyes mischievous. “Probably Cecile.”

“Who in the balls is Cecile?”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “My favorite maid.”

“She doesn’t count.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, and he’s genuinely offended at the thought, his brow pinched and lips pouting obscenely.

“Because she can’t cohost like I can.”

“For the last time—you’re not cohosting the party with me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, grasshopper. Tonight’s soiree is going to be hosted by Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.”

“I don’t do cohosting.”

“You do now. I assure you, I know what I’m about.”

“Oh? Is that so,” Harry says wryly, plucking a lily out of one of his vases and bringing it to his nose to sniff.

“It is so. I’m witty, charming, accommodating, alluring. Mesmerizing. Well dressed. Arguably perfect.”

“You’re an imbecile.”

“Not exactly the word I’d use.”

“Then I’ll use it for you.”

“Hey now!” Louis protests, sitting up and looking terribly offended. “I brought you a latte! _Two_ lattes!”

Harry glances at him, lily masking his nose and lips. “And you keep saying that a latte.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And another beat.

Then:

“Harry Styles. Did you just make a pun?”

And then they laugh, just laugh, Louis giggling and bent over, clutching his lips, Harry smiling wildly and barely allowing his chuckles to escape, looking  far too pleased with himself.

“I’m never speaking to you again,” Louis chortles, smiling at Harry.

Harry’s eyes hold his stare for only a moment before they flick back to the lily still in his grasp. “I’m not sure I’ll notice much,” he says with a twist of the lips.

And Louis throws a pillow that hits Harry square in the face, snapping his lily in half in the process, ascending him into even more laughter.

**

“Now. Let’s pick out your outfit for tonight. Since I’m the host”—“Cohost”—“I’ll have to approve of your choice. You must be adequately festive and chic. But not pretentiously chic. Attractively chic. Like you know how to throw on a pair of trousers but can still forget them in a mate’s car.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“It’s a saying.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Look, do you want my help or not?”

“Not.”

“Well, you’re going to get it, so hush up and let me adorn you like the peacock you are.”

And Harry lets Louis guide him towards the wardrobe.

**

Eventually, evening draws near, and Louis reluctantly picks up his bag to leave as Harry begins making calls to caterers and sending mass texts to all and sundry.

He’s still buzzing from the day—the suspiciously happy day—he’s spent with Harry, and he doesn’t want to leave, never wants to leave, but he’s still wearing an ill fitting jumper and skinny jeans and it would simply go against his morals if he were to cohost in such garb.

“Well then,” Louis sighs when Harry finally ends his call. “I guess I’ll just head back and change. Get ready. Fetch Niall—he’ll be waiting for me.”

Harry nods, but he studies Louis. “You and Niall are good mates?”

“Well, yeah,” Louis says, surprised at the question. “He was the first friend I made here.”

“You didn’t know him before?”

“Nope. Met him the day he moved in.”

Harry nods, seemingly to himself, as they walk towards the door.

“Well. You best assemble yourself for the party, then. And try to select one of the outfits I’ve set out for you,” Louis teases.

“I’m a bit excited, actually,” Harry says, opening the door for Louis. “It’s been awhile since I’ve hosted any parties.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” Louis muses, nodding his thanks. “You’ve been quite the church mouse these past months.” He pauses. “Minus all the sex.”

Harry smirks but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’ll be a nice change.”

“I suppose.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You suppose? Of course it’ll be—everybody already thinks I’ve gotten boring.”

“Good,” Louis says, voice strong. “Let them.” At Harry’s questioning gaze, he continues. “If there are people who genuinely believe you to be boring—you, who collect cat figurines and hold picnics in the dead of winter—then they certainly aren’t the kind of people that deserve to be around you.”

“What do you—“

“They look at you like you’re a piece of paper, Harry,” Louis continues, turning to fully face Harry whose eyes are pinched, contracted and confused. “Like, you’re just that. One flat surface, taken at face value, and that’s it. Like there’s nothing more to you than just whatever’s presented, right? Just fun, like. Enjoyed and, and—“—he pauses, not wanting to say ‘passed on and forgotten’ though the words sting his tongue, itch his thoughts—“and you’re not like that. You’re more like…a novel. You’ve got the cover, yeah, and it’s fun or whatever, but then, like, there’s so much more to it, isn’t there? There’s these incredible quotes and memorable passages and so much happens, so, so much, and there’s just…a lot, you know? It’s something, it matters, and there’s—there’s substance there. You know?” he finishes, and he knows he’s rambling, blathering on, but the sentiment is there. He ends with his arms falling to his sides, staring at Harry.

That really wasn’t as smooth as he’d intended it to be.

But, despite Louis’ lack of eloquence, the sentiment seems to have reached Harry, who is now staring at Louis with a sort of strangled, pleased expression, his lips itching to grin and his eyes fighting between a confused scowl and a smile.

“You’re starting to sound like me,” he says through his pressed lips, hand still on the door, Louis still framed in the space between Harry’s rooms and outside.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Louis grins in response.

Both smiles widen while the icy winds lick their way inside, the distant waves of chatter wafting in their wake.

“So if I’m a novel,” Harry says, and his smile might have grown even wider which makes Louis’ feet feel jittery, “then what are you? A children’s book?”

Louis laughs. It blends with the sun. “Probably a fairytale, to be exact.” He smiles sincerely, stuffing his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, absentmindedly rubbing his chin along the warmth of the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Which one, then? Peter Pan?” He says it with more fondness than mockery, and that alone sends Louis into spirals of warmth and flattery.

He might never get over Harry being kind. Which is just fine.

“Probably, yeah,” Louis laughs again, his voice sounding gentler than it probably ever has, and he tilts his head as he observes Harry, his flimsy jumper ruffling in the icy breezes. “Forever young.” He smiles. “And immature.”

A chuckle escapes Harry before he looks back at Louis, eyes light and curious.

“So which fairytale would I be then?” he asks.

“Pinocchio,” Louis responds without hesitation.

Harry blinks, puzzled. “Pinocchio? Why?”

 _‘Because you’ve become a real boy,’_ Louis wants to tease, wants to laugh.

“Because I swear your nose gets larger every time I see you,” he says instead, and can’t help the laugh that escapes him when he hears Harry’s indignant squawk and takes in his appalled eyes. “Until tonight, cohost,” he continues without transition, suppressing giggles as he begins to turn away from him.

“Harold,” Harry corrects on autopilot, features still miffed.

“Harold,” Louis amends with a smile. “Harold, my cohost.”

And Harry glares and Louis laughs, but they exchange one last smile before Louis waves goodbye as he descends the stairs by the garden.

**

“It’s six, Tommo. We’ve got to go!” Niall calls, dressed to the nines in his chocolate suit and pristine white Nike’s. He glances at his watch. “They’ll probably leave without us and I’ve already given Nelson the night off so we’d be fucked if they do.”

“I’m ready, you git! Let’s go!” Louis calls, stepping out of the bathroom (no, he wasn’t in there for the better part of an hour, that would just be _obscene_ ), resplendent in a cream colored suit. He may or may not have played up his whole ‘eggnog is my new thing’ and adopted a very eggnog-esque ensemble, color-wise. But that’s only because it’s in honor of the holiday season. And he’s technically coshosting this party.

It’s not because of Harry or anything. He’s not aiming for a laugh or a smile or a begrudgingly fond roll of the eyes.

That would just be weird.

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up the minute he sees the spectacle. “You dressed as snow or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Louis says with a roll of his eyes, carefully sliding on his jacket. “I’m cohost—“

“Yeah, yeah, you’re cohosting the party, I know,” Niall dismisses with a wave of his hand, already marching towards the door, bottle of Jameson in one hand, Hennessey in the other. “Still can’t believe Harry’s agreed to that. He’ll change his mind.”

“No, he won’t. Now. Onward, steed!” Louis announces, before marching out the door, Niall laughing and shutting the door behind them.

**

When they arrive at Harry’s rooms, the last thing Louis is expecting is to see Zayn and Liam, practically shimmering in smooth caramel suits, Liam’s waistcoat gold and glowing, smoking cigars and drinking eggnog, the murky liquid clinging to the crystal of their glasses as they throw them back.

While Harry is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Harry?” Louis asks before the door’s even shut, and he glances around, startled when he sees the bedroom door open and revealing a darkened, still room. His eyes search the remainder of the space before he drifts along, finding an empty kitchen, empty bathroom, empty everything.

Zayn watches mildly from the chaise longue while Liam beams and follows Louis with his eyes curiously.

“He’s left already,” Liam says simply, as if it were obvious. “He’s hosting, you know. He said he wanted to finalize the decorative details and make sure that the gingerbread men were cooked to the perfect degree. His theme is gingerbread, you know,” he says, eying Louis’ cream suit. “He’ll be displeased that you haven’t followed his dresscode.”

“I’m cohost,” is all Louis says, forcing himself to ignore the distinct pain of disappointment and…could it be hurt? that lingers in the oxygen filling his lungs and fogging his brain.

“You are?” Liam asks, surprised. “He didn’t mention.”

Ouch.

“What did I tell ya?” Niall says easily, thumping Louis on the back before busting open the Jameson, already accepting a cigar from Zayn and tapping out haphazard texts on his phone.

Ouch again.

Louis glares at Niall’s golden head.

“He’s a bit distracted like,” Zayn says, calm, quiet eyes boring into Louis’. “I’m sure he’ll mention it once we get there.”

Liam looks to Zayn’s peaceful reassurances before setting pitying eyes on Louis—which make his stomach twist and his nerves flare.

“Yes, I’m sure he’ll mention it,” he says.

Louis laughs and pretends not to care, sliding off his jacket in the suddenly too-hot room and setting it on Harry’s desk, ready to drink, ready to laugh some more.

**

They arrive at the hotel the party’s at.

It’s the very portrait of perfection. Everything is gold and amber and caramel and brown, with sprigs of mistletoe and holly hung about, a large punch bowl filled with gingerbread coffee punch sitting in the middle—very reminiscent of Zayn’s party, actually, and Louis briefly wonders if Harry was the true host of that one as well—and ribbons, bows, and evergreen branches peppering every other surface and vaulted ceiling. The air smells of ginger and there are golden trays of gingerbread men and tiny porcelain teacups filled with eggnog.

It would all be very charming and very pleasant, really, if it wasn’t for the fact that Louis feels distinctly jilted. And forgotten.

Especially when he sees Harry, smiling and laughing with a cluster of beautiful guests, raising his teacup in the air and quoting some goddamn poetry. Which is really fucking annoying. And really fucking pretentious.

And Louis, standing in his ridiculous eggnog themed garb, feels like a fucking fool. He also forgot his jacket at Harry’s. So there’s that as well.

“Let’s say hi to Harry,” Zayn breathes in his ear, ushering him forward by the elbow, and then Liam’s on the other side of him, smiling in that clean, practiced way of his and taking his other elbow.

It only serves to irritate Louis more.

“I can say hi whenever I like, thanks,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t protest any further than that, his eyes focusing on Harry as he comes into closer view.

Like clockwork, the guests around him begin to dissipate, kissing his cheeks and sliding manicured hands over his broad torso. Only a few stick around, skulking on the outskirts of Harry’s personal space, dragging eyes over his beautifully dressed figure—crushed ginger velvet with a silver bow tie and mistletoe corsage which is _not_ one of the outfits Louis had selected—and drinking punch hungrily though it never quenches their thirst.

Louis feels homicidal.

“My darling guests!” Harry greets winningly as soon as he sees them, Niall ambling up behind the trio, open bottle pressed to his lips. Harry’s eyes are wide with delight, genuinely pleased to see them, and they flit to Louis repeatedly, holding his smile, but it’s still not enough, and Louis’ pride prevents him from returning it.

“Harry,” Zayn breathes and Liam smiles, while Niall thunders a, “Mate!” and claps him thickly on the back.

“You came early,” is all Louis says, and Harry nods, curls bouncing.

“I did. I had to make last minute adjustments.” He takes in Louis’ suit. “I normally don’t approve of such blatant disregard for my rules”—Louis scoffs as the word ‘rules’—“but I quite like what you did. Eggnog?” he asks with a smirk.

Louis nods.

“How charming,” Harry says, and it’s smooth and luscious and Christmas-y and just…strange. Cocky, maybe. Or hollow. Or all of the above.

In any case, it feels ingenuine and posed, and if there is some genuine sentiment lying beneath the surface, Louis doesn’t really care because Harry ‘s eyes are skimming across the sea of heads for familiar faces and he’s…just…

Louis doesn’t know.

But he doesn’t like it.

Still though, he tries. “I’ve seen that you really do like the whole ‘gingerbread’ thing,” Louis attempts through a smile that feels tight on his cheeks. “I’m glad.”

“How _did_ you come up with it, Harold? It’s so odd,” one of the hanger-ons inquires, her golden hair curled and sprayed, her lips alarmingly red and pulled over too-white teeth.

“It’s just something that came to me,” he responds lazily, running his fingertips over the rim of his teacup in lazy circles, and his eyes are dazed, staring sightlessly forward.

And that’s. fucking. it.

That’s all that Louis can take.

“Right. If you’ll excuse me, lads,” he breathes, breaking free of Zayn and Liam’s grips. They look to him, watchful and a little hesitant, but they let him go all the same. Doing his best to remain calm, Louis pushes past Harry, brushing his body against his sharply, and stalks forward into the crowd.

**

It doesn’t get any better.

The night is a fucking shambles.

It’s not at all how Louis envisioned it. There’s no laughing or joking with Harry. There are no secret jokes or Louis defending him from harpies or Harry finding his eyes from across the room and smiling. There’s no cohosting and no memories and no photos taken and, worst of all maybe, Harry’s wearing his goddamn watch. Even after he said he wouldn’t.

It’s like Louis’ just watched his tower of cards tumble to the goddamn ground and now it’s being trampled on by ignorant passerby and everything is just shitty. It’s really shitty.

The music is festive and beautiful, the violin croons out ghostly melodies, and the lads are in their typical form, laughing and dancing, consuming drugs and alcohol like there’s no tomorrow. And Louis tries, he does, tries to have fun and dance and gulp down everything that will put a smile on his face, but everything only makes him angrier, and no matter what he consumes, he can’t prevent his eyes from sliding to Harry, the picture perfect host, who cascades around the room and poses for photographs and presses wine-stained lips to person after person, all in the name of ‘mistletoe.’

It’s pretty unbearable.

And Louis attempts to forget. He willingly falls into conversations he normally wouldn’t, pretends to bond with anybody that will have him, laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, and allows over-primped boy after over-primped boy to chat him up and press against him on the dancefloor.

But it never lasts for long.

Not when Louis’ insides squirm and Harry’s very presence is a constant, stabbing reminder of why he feels _angry_.

So it’s not very surprising when, at around quarter after eleven, Louis begins to dial a cab on his phone, ignoring Liam’s gestures to join him and Zayn on the dancefloor, and instead focuses on the way Niall is currently chanting an Irish folksong with several unidentifiable lads, their arms all slung around each other’s shoulders as they stomp on tabletops and slosh beer out of the pints that they raise into the sky.

The last thing he sees, as he’s silently winding his way through the crowd and out the door, is the sight of Harry, grinning and happy, wrapped up in several pairs of arms, being fed biscuits and punch, his bow tie being plucked undone by a boy with magenta hair.

It reignites the flames Louis had spent the night trying to stifle, and he exits out the door, never looking back.

**

He feels so fucking stupid.

Stupid because he dressed for that stupid fucking party—and proceeded to get ignored.

Stupid because _he_ was the one that introduced Harry to the goddamn gingerbread and _he’s_ the reason it’s Harry’s new thing—he practically fucking inspired the party—and received no credit whatsoever. Rather, Harry _lied_ about it.

Stupid because he had thought, after two successful, drama free days with Harry, that maybe things were going to be okay. That this was how it was going to be from now on.  

Stupid because he had made Harry laugh and he thought that changed the world.

Stupid because he was ready to beat the masses off with bats if they so much as displeased Harry tonight—and yet Harry chose them over Louis.

Stupid because all of this upset him so much that he couldn’t even enjoy himself, and instead ruined his fucking night and made him leave early because it all just felt so fucking _shitty_.

Stupid because here he is, standing in front of Harry’s door—which is probably locked—and ready to go inside to get his goddamn eggnog or whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called suit jacket, and he’s just always standing outside of Harry’s door, isn’t he?

He just feels so fucking stupid.

Still though, he turns the doorknob, his face set into a scowl that hurts, his body itching to crumble onto his bed as soon as this is done, and is only mildly disapproving when he finds it open—what does he care if somebody busts in Harry’s rooms and knicks his shit? Those creepy-ass cat figurines need to go anyway.

It’s dark inside, the moonlight casting silvery shadows on everything, and the stark bleakness and emptiness feels very representative of everything right now. Where earlier, just hours before, these same rooms were filled with the sounds of Harry’s laughter and the uneven sounds of Louis being taught piano, there is now nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because it’s all gone. And Louis was wrong about everything.

Very representative.

Stone silent and defeated, Louis flicks on the light, immediately spotting his jacket lying carelessly on the surface of Harry’s desk. He doesn’t dilly-dally, just strides over and plucks it up, and is ready to slide it over his cold shoulders and flee back to his flat when he catches sight of a small, leather-bound book that had been lying hidden underneath.  

Huh.

He didn’t know Harry kept a journal.

He’s not going to read it—he’s not an intrusive fuck, after all—but he does brush his fingers against the worn cover, his heart fleetingly pinging at the thought of the mad scribbles and bits of heartfelt poetry that he’s sure litters the insides. The jumbled compositions and music notations and little glances into Harry’s soul…

It’s lightly reassuring, really. In some odd way, it’s reassuring to know that Harry does have that depth. He really is that person Louis had begun to see, even if he won’t ever let Louis near it, won’t ever let Louis see. Won’t ever trust Louis.

The thought lies acrid in his mouth.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Louis is just turning away to leave when his eye catches on a ripped piece of paper poking out from the journal, sticking out from the pages and tucked gently into the spine.

That wouldn’t faze Louis normally.

What fazes him is the familiar scrawl of it. A scrawl that is remarkably resemblant of…Louis’ own.

Eyes still itching with the remnants of exhaustion and frustration, he pauses, squinting at the paper.

No, it _absolutely_ looks like Louis’ handwriting.

His heart picking up pace, he reaches down, unthinkingly opening the book to reveal the scribbled note.

It’s there that Louis reads the words that still echo in his fingertips, written haphazardly so long ago on the now carefully preserved bit of paper, smoothed out on the edges and tucked lovingly inside of Harry’s fucking _journal_ :

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

And, on the back, scribbled neatly and so small, the two words:

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhkay so it's finally here. woo woo woo, dance with me. 
> 
> This chapter has 2 significant songs that I listened to while writing it:  
> 1\. The Strokes "Life is Simple in the Moonlight" which is what I envisioned playing at the party.  
> 2\. Scala's "With or Without You" which is...amazing. And what I listened to while writing this whole thing. ESPECIALLY THE END. It fits quite well with Louis' perspective. Here's a link. (I couldn't find the version that I have, but this one works--just ignore the video)  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEn6YGsXld4
> 
> Okay, also, I'm sorry if this is rough n shitty. I didn't really proof read all of it. If it's a tragic mess, I'll go back and edit. I'm sorry for being a sloppy author :( But whoah damn, THANK YOU ALL FOR BEING GORRRGEOUS. And ushering me to write and sending me reminders and messages and writing the most splendid reviews and being just generally so lovely. Big love <3 <3 <3


	24. XXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis doesn't know.

Louis can’t sleep.

He’s laying awake, limbs cold yet coated in a chilly sweat, crisp sheets sticking to his skin, and his hands lie open and empty on either side of him, resting against the frigid mattress.

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

He stares at the ceiling, dark and barren yet pompously elaborate—just like the rest of this fucking school.

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

His heart is thudding deafeningly. It must have migrated to his skull because it keeps pressing against his ear drums.

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

Is Niall home yet? He hasn’t heard the door.

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

Is Harry home yet?

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

Is Harry currently obliterated, mind, body, and spirit, being supported by a slew of soulless tarts that paint themselves in Versace and Chanel? Is he in a ditch? On a bathroom floor? Is he already sleeping peacefully in his bed? Is he smiling? Is he sad? Does he realize Louis’ not there? Does he care? Does he care about anything?

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_

_“Louis Tomlinson”_

Yeah. No. Louis definitely can’t sleep.

**

Louis wakes up to a thunderous tune on the piano—Tchaikovsky?—far too early in the morning. But he doesn’t even care, just continues to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. He refuses to think about the note.

 _The_ note.

The note that he wrote. The note that he wrote that is currently tucked in Harry’s journal with his name on the back. He refuses to think about all of that because it doesn’t even matter because Harry ignored him last night, erased his presence from his life, and he was the empty, preening shell that he always is. Nothing changed. Harry hadn’t changed.

“I CAN’T CHANGE” flashes through Louis’ mind, writ on Harry’s fair skin. Hah. Ironic.

And fuck.

Too many thoughts.

And text messages, he notes as he picks up his phone. He sees Zayn and Liam’s names repeatedly—never Harry, of course—but doesn’t bother reading the small text, just unlocks his phone and searches for the one person that can help him right now.

It rings once.

The piano stops.

“Tommo,” Niall’s voice greets from the phone and the other side of the wall. “Where you at, mate?”

“My bed.”

There’s a chuckle. “This again? You hungover or somethin’?”

“Not even.”

“You all right?” he yawns. A piano key dings.

“No. Come lie with me. I’m in a dark place.”

“What does that mean? You hungry?”

“No Sasquatch, I’m not hungry,” Louis says, irritated. “I’m vulnerable and on the precipice of darkness.”

Pause.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Fuck’s sake, Ireland, just get your ass in here.”

The phone beeps out a dial tone and then the door is swiftly opened, much to Louis’ relief.

“Tommo,” Niall greets with a grin, his shirt half-buttoned and stained, his sweatpants pushed up at the ankles. Without transition, he flops onto the bed face down, immediately crowding Louis’ space and engulfing the majority of the mattress.

Louis doesn’t mind.

“Thank you,” he sniffs, wrapping the blankets tighter around himself, limbs already warming to the fiery temperature that is Niall Horan. Maybe he really is a dragon.  

“So. What’s got you on the platypus of death or whatever,” Niall mumbles through a mouthful of pillow.

Louis rolls his eyes but answers all the same. “Harry was a dick last night.”

“You surprised?” he muses.

Louis shrugs. “Yeah.”

Abruptly, Niall laughs, airily and light because he’s an actual fucking sun and nothing could ever possibly faze him or penetrate his light. Louis wishes he could be like that. He hates Niall.

“Don’t worry about Harry, all right? You keep trying to make him your project or whatever, but—“

“He’s not my project,” Louis interrupts sharply.

Niall raises his brows. “Whatever. All the same, you’ve got to stop. It’s driving you mad.”

Louis nods a moment later. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I’m not going to call or text or visit him today. If he wants to talk to me, he can come to me. I’m done. I’m finished. If he wants to know why I left so early last night—“

“You left early?” Niall asks mildly, surprised.

Oh wow.

“Yes. I did,” Louis grits, shooting a glare at Niall, but it bounces off of him and the pillows surrounding him, and evaporates into the air.

“Huh. Didn’t notice.”

“Please. Don’t hold back on the flattery,” Louis says dryly.

Niall grins. “I was busy.”

“You’re oblivious.”

“I’m high.”

“Are you?” Louis asks, craning his neck to look at him closely.

“No. But I’m going to be. Wanna join? Let’s watch cartoons. Rory’s bringing breakfast.”

And Niall pulls him out of bed and drags him into the living room.

**

Zayn keeps texting Louis. Which is nice.

 _‘U ok?_ ’ has been sent about thirteen times. On the fourteenth, Louis responds.

_‘I hate everything. Wanna drink battery acid?’_

Approximately five seconds pass before he gets a reply.

_‘I’m coming over.’_

**

There’s a single knock at the door.

“Get in here!” Niall shouts from the couch, high as a kite and gulping orange juice and vodka like it were air, a bottle in each hand. The boy is made of steel.

Louis blinks from his nest beside Niall, burrowed in blankets and surrounded by nibbled on biscuits and Red Bull, and smiles immediately as Zayn—wearing large black glasses and a thick black jumper that somehow just makes him look even more attractive—sidles into the room.

“Niall,” he greets calmly, bumping fists lazily as he passes, making his way to Louis.

“Zayn man,” Niall burps. He holds up his bowl. “Want some?”

“In a bit,” Zayn says satinly, chocolate truffle eyes intent on Louis. He joins him in his nest, burrowing his slim, Greek God body into the blankets and Louis can’t help but laugh at the image because it’s Zayn and Zayn is flawless and he belongs on gilt thrones and tapestries, not piles of messy blankets on a velvet couch that smells like weed and onion crisps.

“Hello Zayn,” Louis greets, blinking bleary eyes and resting his head on the boy’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming to see me. Where’s Liam?”

He smirks. “Sleeping. He had a time of it last night.”

“Doesn’t he always?”

“Moreso than usual,” Zayn says with a light shake of the head and his smirk fades. “He’s probably getting a bit too rowdy, to be honest. Found him on the roof, half naked and snorting something pink. Gonna have to keep an eye on him. He could hurt himself.”

“Jesus,” Louis mutters while Niall laughs. “Is it cuz he’s so stressed?”

Zayn’s eyes slide to the TV, unimpressed but watchful. “I think so.”

“Why weren’t you with him?”

Zayn looks back at Louis. “I was with Harry.”

Ugh. Just the name sends a plonk in Louis’ stomach.

“I see,” he says icily, and he feels Zayn’s eyes stick to him even as he looks away. He doesn’t ask any questions.

“You all right? You left so early,” Zayn comments, inspecting Louis closely with lazy eyes. Lazy-eyes-that-appear-lazy-but-are-actually-not-lazy-at-all would actually be more appropriate, though. Louis hates that. Louis hates Zayn.

“I’m incredible. Marvelous. Splendid,” Louis says, but his voice is teetering on the edge of being shrill, and both Niall and Zayn’s eyebrows shoot into the air. Which is unnecessary.

“He didn’t mean to be rude to you, Lou.”

Louis feels a flush overcome his body. His spinal cord tingles.

“But he _was_. End of story.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Louis shoots a sharp eye at him. “Don’t act like a bloody superhero, Zayn. You couldn’t even take care of your own boyfriend last night.”

At that, Zayn actually scowls, his glare machete-sharp and positively venomous. “Liam’s capable of taking care of himself. I’m not his keeper,” his softly dangerous voice breathes, and the slits of his eyes make incisions in Louis’ eyes, cheeks, neck. “I love him and I’ll always be there for him to the best of my abilities. But I don’t own him and he can do what he wants, can’t he.”

Louis squirms, blinking away his guilt as he burrows deeper within his nest. He’s never really disagreed with Zayn before.

Quite frankly, it’s terrifying. And Louis feels very much in the wrong.

“I’m being a dick right now,” he mutters. He glances at Zayn. “Aren’t I?”

Zayn nods.

“You’re being a cunt, that’s what you’re being,” Niall’s boisterous voice announces through a waterfall of thick smoke, ending on a cough.

Zayn nods again, but a smile twitches at the corner of his lips.

“You flirt, you,” Louis says witheringly in Niall’s direction.

He shrugs in response.

“Look,” Louis sighs, attempting to sit up and free himself of his blanket burrito. He lays his arms on top of the blankets, bare and cold now, fiddling with stray hems and fabric. “I know that you said I need to be patient with Harry, yeah?”

Zayn nods, his eyes continuing to make tiny incisions in Louis.

“But, like, that can only be an excuse for so long. You know? Like, sometimes, yeah, I have to take into account that he’s not as, shall we say, _equipped_ to deal with certain situations. But when does that start just becoming an excuse? Every time he fucks up, I’ve got to chalk it up to him just being the wounded soldier, while I take all the shit? I’ve got to accept all he does and just sit back and wait for it to get better? Is that what you think I should do, Zayn?”

“Not at all.”

“Exactly! So, like, last night? I’m done. I’m done, mate. We were getting on fine—wonderfully, even—and he’d basically agreed to let me cohost the party and we had an all right day, okay? It was an all right day—more than all right, actually. And everything was just…really good, and then he went and acted like a tit and fucked it all up and now I’m just…” Louis fades, unsure of where to go with that. He briefly considers mentioning Harry’s journal and the quote, pick at Zayn’s brain to find out what that means, what any of this means, but the selfish parts of him (the majority) don’t want anybody else to know.

It’s between Harry and him. And he likes that. So he doesn’t say anything more.

After a pause that feels much longer than it really is, Zayn sighs, rubbing at his eyes.

“I’m too tired for this,” he mumbles, his hand now smoothing down his face, catching on his stubble.

Louis laughs lightly.

The click of Niall’s lighter sounds.

“You know what, Louis?” Zayn finally sighs, turning to look at him. Louis blinks, feeling small and owlish in his nest. “Fuck it. Just…do you. Do what’s good for you, all right mate? Forget about Harry for awhile and just focus on _you_. That’s what I care about. That’s what’s important.”

And that is sweet, that is genuinely sweet, and Louis feels his face smiling as he welcomes Zayn in with a one armed hug, but there’s this thing in his chest, this solid weight—is it a stone?—and it doesn’t budge or lift, only seems to get heavier as he accepts Zayn’s kind words and loyal friendship that he is honestly so thankful for…

But it’s that Zayn’s even let go of hope for Harry. It’s that this struggle, this shit that’s kept him awake all night and has been eating at him for months, has just been brushed aside and swept under the rug, and now Louis is just supposed to forget about it all?

Yes, he can focus on himself. But that doesn’t mean he can’t care about others, too.

Not that he wants to care about Harry anymore, not after last night. Or that he ever did at all. Or…

Fuck. Just fuck.

**

Zayn leaves after about an hour, high as a kite and staring lovingly at his phone as he begins receiving the first of Liam’s blearily raging hangover texts.

“Miss you alreadyyyy,” Niall calls as Louis waves, and then the flat is silent, bar the TV that prattles on endlessly, a football match that Louis is too distracted to care about flitting on the screen.

He really wants to stop thinking about Harry. He really wants to stop feeling like shit. Which will come first?

“I really just hate everything, Niall,” he announces, staring blankly at the screen.

Niall snores in response.

And Louis sighs, ignoring the stone that is lodged in his chest and potentially gaining size.

He will not contact Harry. He will not.

**

Eventually Louis wakes Niall up with soft smacks to the chest.

“Ireland. I need you to hide my phone,” he says.

He’s greeted with a hideous glare as Niall blinks into life.

“Fuck off, cunt,” he growls, then turns over.

Louis swallows, and his phone burns in his hand.

**

Apparently, Louis is a masochist. Because now he’s calling his mum.

She picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hm?” is the greeting he receives, and he sits down on his bed a little awkwardly.

“Mum?”

“Who is this?”

Annoyance prickles at his scalp. “Your son. _Louis_.”

“Louis,” she says mildly, tone distracted. “What do you need, love?”

His tempter sizzles. Because of course. Of fucking course. She goes from leaving him five minute voicemails of her sobbing and demanding that he return to her, to barely recalling his existence. His stomach spits. So fucking typical of her. Just so fucking typical.

“I just wanted to say hi,” he says, keeping the annoyance out of his tone. His voice just sounds alien, though.

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “All right, then.”

He lies back on his bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are the girls?”

“At school.”

Which, okay. That’s sort of an answer.

“Good, good. I miss them.”

He hears her hum a noncommittal sound.

Right then.

“Okay, well, it’s been great chatting with you,” he says wryly, feeling loveless and pathetic, getting up off the bed and regretting ever picking up his phone, even if it did serve as a distraction from Harry and/or the homework/studying that he just cannot do right now. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait, love,” she suddenly says, and Louis’ ears prick up. “Is Niall there? I’d love to have a quick chat.”

And he hangs up the phone.

Because fuck no. He does not feel like dealing with that.

The day feels like it will never end.

**

Louis is absolutely a masochist. He is, truly. Because if he wasn’t, then he wouldn’t have left Niall’s snoring figure and his cozy flat to stand out here in the blistering cold, right outside of Harry’s door. And he wouldn’t be turning the doorknob to enter it, either.

Oh well.

He nudges it open with gusto, feeling his body fall inside before his brain has, and he’s already beginning to feel himself catch fire, the thousands of bewildered questions and accusations surfacing to his mouth as he pictures the jade eyes he’s about to encounter.

Then suddenly he’s met with a room filled with fucking strangers, still dressed from the night before, surrounding Harry—who’s standing in the middle of the group and looking a bit peaky and artistically unkempt—and looking very heroin chic, straight out of an ad for Gucci.

They all stare at him.

Harry immediately looks up.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he greets, blatantly surprised, and his voice isn’t the grandiose purr that it usually is when he’s surrounded by people and putting on his false pleasantries. It’s his real voice, his Harry voice, and his eyes are wide with surprise and attentiveness, unblinkingly set on Louis.

Louis takes in the scene—the people draped over each other, over Harry, holding their glasses of champagne and mineral water, laughing in the most artificial way and surveying Louis as prey. They’re all there for the same reason, making a circle around Harry—to fuck him, use him, take him, sponge off of him—if they haven’t already. Because they’re sightless, soulless, harpy bitches with their noses in the air and their trust funds and their lineages and their possessive claws that curl around the lapels of Harry’s jackets and—and no, NOPE, Louis definitely can’t deal with this right now.

“Right. Never mind. Bye,” is all he says, spinning back around. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” Harry practically shouts, and Louis pauses before turning around, one eyebrow raised.

The chatter of the harpies quiets a bit.

“Don’t you desire to meet my exquisite guests?” he then asks, but it’s still in the Harry voice despite the ostentatious words, so Louis can’t ignore him, can’t turn away.

“Not really, no,” he replies, and he feels the hardness of his eyes reflected back in Harry’s wide ones. “I don’t have manners, I don’t do pleasantries, and I don’t care to stay. So. Bye.”

And with that, Louis walks out the door, his flesh hot and his mouth dry, feeling the tension skyrocket in the room behind him. He marches forward, ready to flee to the sanctity of his flat and Niall’s sedated arms, when suddenly he hears the door open and close behind him. He glances back—Harry.

It’s Harry.

“What, you forget something?” he snaps, whirring around. “Want me to fetch you another latte? A ginger biscuit? A cheese danish?” His voice is bitter, blatantly so, and he feels the muscles around his eyes contracting. But he gives no fucks.

Harry stares at him, his eyes widening that much more in surprise. There’s a hint of offense, maybe hurt, lying in the corners and dotting the edges, and his posed pleasantries of playing host have vanished, his shoulders now slumped and hands quiet. He merely stands there, adorned in his long, leopard print t-shirt that last for ages (which…the fuck?) and painfully tight trousers, his hair curling around his ears. His eyes look greener today.

“Why did you leave so early last night?” he asks, voice quiet, childlike. The words are soft and raspy, catching in the winter air and settling on the crisp remains of dead leaves. His lips are pale and his skin is porcelain and marred in a sleepless night filled with excess. Naturally, it’s fucking beautiful. He looks fucking beautiful.

The asshole.

“Because I didn’t want to be there, obviously,” Louis answers sharply. He folds his arms over his chest, ignoring the way the breeze tumbles Harry’s curls and how one flutters in his eye, tangling with his lashes.

Harry’s eyes widen still more. “You didn’t like it?” he asks in a small voice and it’s like Louis’ just knocked down his ice cream cone, the boy’s lips one step away from quivering.

Fuck. Just fuck.

“Of course I liked it, you curly haired cunt,” Louis sighs, his voice far less fierce than he’d intended. “But next time you choose to ignore my general existence, don’t expect a fucking parade for it.”

There. Brute honesty. Its feels good, just seeping it out into the air. Relieving.

The words cause Harry’s stare to morph from hurt to confusion as he observes Louis closely. “I wasn’t—I just—I didn’t do it on purpose—“ is all he can muster out, his words stumbling over themselves. His head drops when he gives up his attempts at articulation, and he paws at the ground.

“Well,” Louis says, feeling his anger dwindle (which is just terribly inconvenient), “That’s not really an excuse, is it?” But his throat is really dry now and fuck, it sort of does feel like an excuse.

Ugh.

Once more, Harry falls silent, his eyes cast to the ground. His ebony lashes cut across the ivory planes of his face, which is poetic enough in and of itself, not to mention unfairly endearing.

Bastard.

“I didn’t want you to go.”

Fuck.

It’s said quietly to the ground, only so that the cobblestones, the ancient stone, the dead ivy, and Louis can hear. And Louis’ heart, which promptly splits in two. Or has it been mended?

Fuck.

FUCK.

Louis might fall down.

He swallows. “Then why did you act that way? So…indifferent, like? Cold,” Louis asks, his voice bathed in total honesty, and as he stares, hard, at Harry, he allows his face to assemble into whatever expression it deems worthy of the situation, not even bothering to mask it in an adopted calm or nonchalance.

There’s a pause, a silence, a fucking chasm of nothing where Louis just stands and waits, and then Harry looks up, eyes pained and muddled and storming. Lightning flashes across his irises, rain pours over his corneas. Louis hears rumbles of thunder in his chest.

“I’ve got to go back inside,” is all that Harry says, and there, he’s doing it—reassembling himself, his features now masked in stone, his eyes distant. He’s walking backwards towards the door, eyes still on Louis.

Louis’ fingertips feel numb as he watches, dumbly.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” is the last thing he says, almost pleadingly—or is he trying to convince himself?—before he disappears behind the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's AMAZAYN inspiration is: "Nothing to Give" by White Lies. Good, good shit. Lookit up, yeah? It's perfect for the situations at hand. Purrfect.
> 
> Also, thank you again for reading and being so utterly glorious <3 Kisses n cuddles. 
> 
> Tumblr at me (mizzwilde) for chatting or questions or suchlike. Or to kick my ass when I'm not writing when I should be.


	25. XXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry breaks.

As soon as Louis gets home, he falls onto the couch, feeling miserable and terrible and horrible and really bewildered by his own emotions—most of which scream Harry’s name and that stupid fucking _Dorian Gray_ quote and throw a lot of question marks behind the lids of his eyes.

“You go to see Harry, then?” Niall asks from the kitchen, having now woken up and currently eating what appears to be an apple pie with his hands, great clumps of it dripping down his fists as he licks it off, sleepy and blissfully happy. He’s disgustingly endearing. Or maybe it’s endearingly disgusting? Louis buries his face deeper into the couch.

“No,” he lies, voice muffled by the velvet that feels more grating than luxurious.

“How did it go?” Niall asks seamlessly, not even pretending to indulge Louis, syrupy apple chunks clinging to his chin.

“I hate everything,” Louis groans, relenting. “I’m leaving and never coming back.”

“You’ve only got two weeks before term ends. You barely have to see the bloke. You’ll manage fine,” Niall mutters through sticky lips.

“No I won’t,” Louis says pitifully.

At that Niall grins, licking his hands clean before he hops like a fucking rabbit over to Louis, flouncing down atop him and blanketing him in his entire body, causing Louis to emit coughed wheezes.

“Jesus Christ!” he gasps, Niall’s weight nearly crushing him. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Having a cuddle,” Niall says simply, but he just lays there, limbs loose, smiling into Louis’ hair.

“Is this your way of comforting me?”

“No. This is how I comfort myself.”

“Ah. I see,” Louis struggles, trying to shift their bodies until he has room to breathe. He manages to find a happy medium of balance, his air passageways no longer obscured by dead Irish weight, so he figures he might as well just let Niall stay there now that he won’t die. It might feel a little bit nice, even. Maybe.

“Harry’s a cunt,” Niall grunts after a pause.

“No he’s not,” Louis sighs. “He’s Harry.”

“Harold,” Niall mockingly corrects.

Louis laughs.

There’s a peaceful silence, filled only by the distant sounds of student chatter from the other side of the tightly locked windows, and Louis is just wondering if Niall fell asleep when:

“My father’s asked me to come into the studio tomorrow morning, first thing.”

Hm?

Louis’ attention perks. “The studio? I thought the track was just about ready to be released? Isn’t the release party coming up?”

Niall shifts until he’s staring at Louis, lips pursed.

“It was.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Niall nods, slowly disengaging himself from Louis and sitting up, kicking his feet up on the table. His face looks oddly trepid, something Louis isn’t used to seeing from Niall, and he feels spikes of curiosity begin to shoot through him.

“I heard Des is having a bit of a time of it,” Niall says, and he locks eyes with Louis. “Had a fit this morning. Bad.”

Oh.

“He doesn’t like the song. Says he won’t let it be released.”

“I thought he wrote it,” Louis says, attention piqued even more. He does his best to keep his thoughts of Harry to the far corners of his mind, keep his face and emotions neutral.

“He did. But he changed his mind, I guess,” Niall shrugs. “Father wouldn’t tell me much more than that, but. Something’s fucked. He didn’t sound right on the phone.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Des is probably losing his fucking mind again and you shouldn’t be surprised if Harry turns into a wanker about it.”

“Excuse me?” Louis asks, taken aback. “If Des is as bad as I keep hearing about, then Harry has every right to turn into a wanker. He’s not a fucking robot, Niall, it’s going to affect him!”

“Look,” Niall says, and he turns to face Louis fully, his eyes sharp and clear, finger pointed in his direction, the band of his watch glistening dangerously, “There is no excuse for Harry treating you badly. You’ve got to stick up for yourself. You’re not weak, Louis. So don’t act like you are.”

Louis blinks, shocked. In this light, in this tone, Niall is almost…intimidating.

And weak? Why the fuck would he call Louis _weak?_

Louis Tomlinson is anything but weak.

“Don’t point your finger at me,” Louis snarks, grabbing the boy’s finger and shoving it away. “I’m well aware that I’m not weak, Ireland. Well aware. But there’s nothing weak about caring about somebody and showing them compassion. All right? There’s a strength in that, even. So you lot best stop prattling off your speeches to me because you just don’t know Harry like I do, all right?”

There’s a pause where the situation could go either way—Niall could retort with a venomous comment and a flash of the eyes, or he could just walk away peacefully. Louis isn’t sure which one it’s going to be.

Until a smile slowly begins to form on Niall’s lips. Which is unexpected.

“Thatta boy, Tommo,” he grins, mussing up Louis’ hair. “That’s what I like to hear. You’re gonna be fine.”

And Louis doesn’t really know what that means or what’s happening, but Niall merely gets up off the couch and switches on the game station, handing Louis a controller with an approving grin. So he lets it go, his mind already too packed to tackle another situation.

“You’re the strangest fucking twat,” Louis mutters, taking the controller. “I’m not even sure what just happened.”

Niall grins. “Love you too, mate. Now. You in the mood for Indian or sushi?”

Louis laughs.

**

When Louis returns from class the next day, his stress levels are through the roof (how many projects does he have to do? how many papers? how many exams does he need to diligently prepare for??) and he’s even managed to forget about Harry, his thoughts on his grades and busy calculating the probability of failing each course. It’s nearly impossible, but it could still happen.

That is, he’s managed to forget Harry until he finds himself at his door, his feet having found their way there due to an ingrained habit that really shouldn’t be so ingrained since studying at Harry’s rooms has only been a recent development. Or, maybe, Louis just really subconsciously wants to see Harry and his feet figured that out before his head could.

Which, no. Probably not. Of course not. No.

But for whatever reason, Louis is there, staring at Harry’s door, stress receding as his thoughts recede into something more present and hard-hitting.

Harry.

He hasn’t spoken to him since he came to see him yesterday, when Harry left him outside with the words, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose’ still lingering in the frigid, unfeeling air. Which isn’t that out of the ordinary but it somehow feels significant.

Steeling himself and his jangling nerves, he opens the door, stepping inside and feeling a mix of anxiety and peace at the familiar smell of Harry’s rooms—money, books, and subtle perfumes. Maybe wood polish as well. Maybe a bit of hair product. Maybe a bit of home—which, _no_. No. Definitely not home. Not that. That would just be strange. No. Not home.

Nevertheless, the anxiety and peace are still present, washing down upon Louis, weighing down his limbs and soaking into his clothes.

An anxiety and peace that immediately extinguishes as soon as he shuts the door and takes in the scene before him.

It’s Harry.

And a boy.

A boy who has Harry pressed against the wall, devouring his body with guiltless, hungry hands and a hideous wet mouth, as Harry’s eyes stare unseeingly at the ceiling, head tilted back. His shirt is unbuttoned and pushed haphazardly off his milky shoulders, revealing his broad expanse of tattoo-scribbled chest. His trousers are unzipped, the stranger’s hands now slinking into them, apparently unaware of Louis’ presence, and the scene is ghastly and sickening because the stranger is just _taking_ and Harry is just allowing it, hands pressed against the wall almost patiently, and he can’t even get a good look of Harry’s face because this fucking _person_ is just crowding him, suffocating him, drowning him, and fuck—

“The fuck is this?!” Louis snaps without being able to control himself. He realizes his whole body has begun to shake, his fists clenched, and he’s debating which textbook of his is the heaviest (and would provide the most damage when thrown forcefully at another’s head) as he storms forward, dropping his shoulder bag, his eyes desperately trying to seek out Harry but being blocked by the fucking stranger who is now upright and swiveling around wildly, shocked and angry.

At hearing Louis’ voice, Harry immediately turns away, his face hidden, his shoulders tiny, and he looks so unkempt and picked apart and beautiful and disassembled and tragic and _fuck_ , Louis is going _kill someone_.

He sets his fury on the stranger before him, a boy with dirty blonde hair and cutting blue eyes, chiseled from stone and glazed in want, the very portrait of something that would look excellent on the receiving end of Louis’ fist. Or a pitchfork. Which this kid probably possesses, because isn’t it Satan who carries one around?

Louis’ pores might be steaming.

The boy glares at Louis, haughty and perturbed, already beginning to reach for Harry again.

“It’s not your turn,” is all he says in his uppity, posh voice.

And Louis punches him in the face.

“THE FUCK?!” the boy shouts, clutching his face, blood already beginning to leak out of his nose and, fuck, if that isn’t satisfaction, then Louis doesn’t know what is.

“Get the fuck out!” Louis shouts, his whole body shivering with adrenaline, and he doesn’t care if this is out of line or if Harry’s going to get mad at him—he just needs this kid gone. And gone _now_.

Luckily Louis must look as scary as he feels because without another word the boy is scrambling out the door, hand still covering his face, hastily grabbing his jacket on the way out.

As soon as the door slams, Louis spins around to Harry who is still averted from him, cowering against the wall.

“You didn’t have to do that, Louis,” his says, his voice harsh and cutting through the air.

“Yes I fucking did,” Louis responds, breathing through his nose, his chest heaving, and he dares to reach out a hand, placing it gently on Harry’s shoulder. He flinches and shoves it away.

Louis’ chest pings.

“Harry,” he says, his voice regaining its sense of normalcy. “Harry, c'mon, mate. Look at me.”

“Why are you even here?” Harry asks darkly, stepping out of Louis’ reach and still not facing him. Why won’t he look at him?

Louis swallows. “I-I wanted to study.”

“It’s the end of term. You don’t need me to tutor you anymore.” Harry, head bent, is now walking towards his bedroom.

So Louis follows him.

“I just want to study. Here. Like I have been,” he says, and his voice is quiet now, uncomfortable and upset because what is happening? Something’s wrong.

“Just go, Louis.”

It pings again, but Louis ignores it.

“Harry. Look at me?”

“ _Go,_ ” he says more forcefully.

Pings harder.

“Look at me _please?_ ” Louis asks, and he doesn’t even care that he’s begging, now standing close behind Harry who has stopped, having entered his room, the dusty light from the windows illuminating his side.

Harry’s shoulders tense and his fists clench. But slowly, ever so slowly, he turns around, slowly lifting his head.

The beginnings of a smile form on Louis’ lips as he’s met with the familiar sight of Harry’s face—and then it’s gone and hot, pulsing anger grips at his veins instead.

Because bruises.

Dark, shining, metallic _bruises_.

One by Harry’s temple, muddled and purple. One at the corner of his eye, almost black, etched in red. One—Louis swallows his own bile—pressed into his neck. It looks alarmingly like a thumbprint. And there’s a swollen edge of the lip. And a small cut beside it.

And the air has become suffocating.

“Harry,” Louis cracks out, immediately reaching his hand to touch, to soothe, but Harry winces away, his eyes nearly fearful and his brow scowling.

“They’ll go away soon enough,” Harry snaps, voice gravelly, “They’re not permanent.”

“Yes they are.”

Louis wants to cry. He wants to punch someone. But his brain can’t catch up and he doesn’t know who to punch or why or what or how or—

“Who did this to you?” he demands, his voice stronger than he intends, and his fury shakes his voice. “Was it that piece of shit?”

“No,” Harry immediately replies, and he’s turning his back to him again, walking straight towards his piano and lifting the cover. He sits down heavily, the bench squeaking in the dusty afternoon air that feels too cold and too hot and it might be killing Louis.

“Who did it,” Louis repeats, and he wants to remain soft and gentle, doesn’t want to scare Harry, but his emotions have lain siege to his brain and he can’t think or act properly, can only feel. “ _Who?_ ”

“Well it doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?” Harry snaps, body fully tensed, and his head inclines towards Louis but never turns to face him. And then suddenly he’s shuffling through his sheet music.

Louis stares, helpless and so, so fucking angry. And so, so fucking scared.

“Harry,” he attempts, voice now succumbing to his body. It’s brittle and broken and evaporates quickly into the air.

Harry begins tapping at the keys of the piano. Almost manically.

“Harry.”

The keys plonk harshly in the air, jumbling together, and Harry’s head is bent over. His shirt is still open. Louis wonders if he’s cold and can only think of wrapping him in a blanket—something soft and warm and luxurious. Something that will soothe him and protect him and heal him.

Louis wants to cry.

“ _Harry._ ”

Immediately, a mess of piano keys are crashed down, furious and frustrated, as Harry slams his hands down, shooting himself upwards in a standing position and knocking the bench to the ground. “I’m fucking busy, Louis. Can you just go the fuck away?!” he shouts. He’s breathing heavily, his arms are shaking, and the echo of the piano resonates ominously within the room, low and haunting.

And fuck.

Louis’ vision blurs. Actual tears are thick in his eyes and they’re threatening to spill over and Louis _hates_ this part of the crying process. That in-between bit where you’ve already teared up but nothing’s fallen, nothing’s spilled down your dry cheeks, and you’re just balancing between composure and chaos.

He evens his breathing—which shakes betrayingly—and stares upward, willing his eyes to absorb the tears back where they belong—far, far away from the world outside.

“I don’t want—“ he finally begins once he’s had a sense of composure, but then Harry’s whirling around, his own eyes glassy and red and almost excruciatingly pained.

“I don’t give _a fuck_ what you want,” he bellows, fists clenched. A stray sheet of music falls from the piano, where it’d been perched haphazardly. It settles on the ground, somewhere near Louis’ stomach. Maybe his heart, too. “I don’t need your _fucking_ concern, Louis _fucking_ Tomlinson. I don’t need your pity or your intrusiveness or your fucking _presence_ in my life at all. You don’t know me—you don’t know _shit_ about me—and you don’t know anything _at all_ and you have absolutely _no_ part of my life and I don’t give a fuck about you so, please, just leave me the fuck _alone!_ ”

Silence.

The room is completely still, bar Harry’s angry, wrought pants and quivering intakes of breath. He’s visibly shaking, shivering like a leaf, and his face is pink and blotchy. It’s barely angry, really, more panicked and terrified and on the verge of breaking into tears, but the words.

It’s the words.

The words have cut through Louis. Cut him in places he didn’t even know existed. They’ve severed vital appendages and imbedded in his soft tissues and bone marrow and they’ve impaled him and decapitated him and amputated him and—and it doesn’t feel like there’s very much left.

All because of words.

It probably shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. It never has before. Louis’ used to words. He knows words. He uses words. But none like these.

There’s, maybe, two more minutes of silence, Harry battling back unfallen tears and full body shakes, hurricanes behind his eyes, his chest pale and exposed and his tattoos look like bleeding poetry.

Louis just stands there. He stands there until he can’t stand anymore, and then suddenly he’s turning silently around, leaving, feeling hollowed out and carved, Harry still breathing enough for the both of them. He imagines that this must be what it feels like to be a jack-o’-lantern.

He’s leaving, and he picks up his shoulder bag on the way out and he’s staring at the ceiling, then the sky, and he closes the door silently behind him, and he stares upward because the minute he looks down, the tears will fall.

And he won’t cry over Harry Styles.

So Louis doesn’t look down.

**

The next two weeks are a blur of stress and Times New Roman.

Between writing papers, reading textbook after textbook and play after play and book after book, Louis has barely any time to think. He doesn’t even see the other lads, occasionally exchanging texts with Zayn and Liam (and Liam is positively going mental under the stress of everything, often replies with autocorrected nonsense and, on one particular occasion, a Spanish exclamation point) and, even more rarely, occasionally accompanying them on their late night sessions in the library or Liam’s rooms.

He sees Niall sometimes—when he isn’t out partying. Because, apparently, Niall Horan is untouchable and final exams aren’t something that he does.

More often than not, when Louis returns to the flat after a study group or tutorial, he’ll find only Rory—pouring over books and notes or frantically searching Wikipedia, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose and his auburn hair frizzed and sticking out at all ends. Louis will usually make him a cup of tea and offer him a bit of toast before sending an angry, disapproving text to Niall (‘ _U irresponsible fuck.’_ ), but things never change, and Niall never studies, and Louis is just too tired to care.

When he does see Niall, the conversation is never very uplifting.

“I’ve got to go to the studio again in an hour.”

Louis nearly slams his notebook down, his glasses smudged and his hair hidden beneath a beanie—which is fortunate for Niall, because Louis’ pretty sure it smells. “ _Again?_ ”

Niall nods. “Grimshaw’s so fucking furious about it, too. What with the release party at the end of the week.” He shakes his head, clipping the end off of a cigar. “And Des has refused to come into the studio anymore, so we’re just gonna have to take the vocal bits he did and splice them together. It’s all such a fucking chore.”

Louis swallows, head bowing back down to his notes. “Oh yeah?”

Des. Des being difficult. Harr-nope.

No.

“This guy’s fucking insane. He tried to attack my father! _My_ father,” Niall scoffs. He shakes his head, eyes clear and cutting as he gazes out the window.

Attack.

Louis swallows again. His throat is so dry.

“ _And_ he trashed the equipment again. Thousands of fucking pounds, thrown down the drain.”

“All because he changed his mind about the song?” Louis asks, voice straining to be casual.

“He wrote another fucking song—we’re not even using the old one!” Niall exclaims, lighting the cigar, his cheeks hallowed around it as the flame licks the end. “Dunno what the fuck that cunt’s problem is.”

“Well. He’s mental.”

“Very much so.” A stream of smoke falls from Niall’s lips. He checks his watch. “Should be my last trip, though. Everything’s going to be released as scheduled—we’ve already promoted everything—so we’re speeding everything up a bit.”

Louis nods. He shuffles his papers a bit.

“I saw Harry yesterday, actually.”

Louis’ blood freezes.

“He was leaving the studio as I was coming.”

Harry? Studio? Why was he at the studio?

Louis almost snaps his pencil in half. His hand quivers.

“He’s sporting a nasty shiner, isn’t he? Do you know what it’s from?”

Niall doesn’t know that Louis doesn’t talk to Harry anymore. Quite frankly, Louis hadn’t had the heart to tell him. And he certainly doesn’t have the heart to tell him now—not when he’s just discovered that there are more bruises. It’d been almost two weeks ago since Louis’ seen Harry.

The other ones must have healed. There’s more. There are _more._ And Louis can only think of Des. His stomach burns at the image.

“I don’t know,” he chokes out, and he bites his lip to keep from spitting out anything else.

Niall must catch onto something (for once in his life) because he doesn’t say anything after that, just raises his eyebrow before placing his cigar back in his teeth and retreating to his room.

Louis’ throat hurts.

Everything hurts.

**

Every single day, Louis thinks about texting Harry. But he doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t.

He only actually goes through with it once, when he’s leaving his Victorian Playwrights examination with a newfound confidence and a bounce in his step, knowing that he passed with flying colors—all because of Harry’s tutoring.

_‘I think I can safely say I passed my final exam. Thanks to you. I appreciate your help this term.’_

He’s about to wish him luck on his own exams, about to inquire as to how he is, but then Louis isn’t sure if Harry even takes exams and thinks he probably knows the answer to how he’s doing, so he leaves the message as is and sends it before he can regret his actions, mentally marking it as the last thing he’ll ever say to Harry.

Because, obviously, Harry won’t text him back.

And besides, he’s done with Harry. He has to be—Harry’s all but thrown him out on his ass—and now life is about being easy. It’s about making life easy for Louis and doing well in school and getting a good job and making some good, mentally stable mates and drinking too much and fucking too many people whose names he’ll never know. University isn’t about Harry fucking Styles, so Louis is done with him, and Louis is going to make his life easier.

Except.

Life doesn’t get easier.

It doesn’t get easier when he can’t sleep at night or when he stares at his phone, willing it to light up with a message, just one message, and anything to be said. Even if it’s just one letter or a pocket dial or anything. It doesn’t get easier when he goes out of his way to walk by the gardens and can’t help but peer into Harry’s shaded windows. It doesn’t get easier when he feels hollow inside, when he ignores study mates’ requests to celebrate the end of term, when attractive boys flirt, when people greet him with smiles, when Niall tries to drag him out to the clubs. It doesn’t get easier at all.

He hears his name in the corridors, in the hallways, in the courtyard, in the classrooms—everywhere. He hears whispers of his parties and exclamations of his conquests and his excess and his charms and his body and his money and his quirks and every single word spoken from a poisoned mouth that knows _fuck all_ about Harry, just makes Louis’ blood boil. Positively _boil_. But he says nothing, just keeps his head down, and studies, studies, studies until he forgets.

But it doesn’t get any easier.

He’ll see pictures on Facebook. Harry, adorned in beautiful clothes, draped in beautiful people, pupils blown. Bruises barely visible under makeup and shadow. Captions like “BEST NIGHT EVER FUCK” litter the screen and it leaves Louis’ stomach twisting. Not just with disgust, but with worry, with fear. With all kinds of things.

And then sometimes Zayn will mention him offhandedly before getting this _look_ in his eyes when Louis clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck, before immediately cutting himself off. As if to spare Louis or something.

And sometimes one of Des’ songs will come on the radio and that just fucking sucks as well.

And then there was that question about Oscar Wilde on his exam—it almost sent him into a downward spiral of emotional panic and despair, right there in the classroom.

No, none of it gets any easier.

But, hopefully, in time it will.

**

“Do I look important enough in this?” Niall asks, twirling in place, arms outstretched and welcoming an honest, objective opinion.

It’s the last day of term before everybody goes home for the holidays. Incidentally, it’s also the night of Des and Nick Grimshaw’s release party for their new single, “Certain Things,” and Niall has cordially invited Louis as his ‘plus one.’ He has hasn’t stopped talking about the event for the past couple of days—he’s brilliantly excited about his drumming skills (the boy doesn’t even pretend to be humble) and he’s eagerly awaiting the thousands of requests he insists he’s going to get to become the next big thing in modern music.

To be honest, Louis wouldn’t be surprised at all if that was Niall’s true calling. He might need to start looking for a flatmate for next term.

“You look important enough for big time execs to request your services for their upcoming artist’s tracks. Does that count?” Louis asks, and he smiles. He wishes he could smile bigger. But, in the present funk he still seems to be in, he cannot.

Niall must notice because he comes up to him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, and Louis meets his eye. “We’ll have fun tonight, yeah? Free booze and free drugs and plenty of opportunities for sex. We’ll have fun. I promise.”

Louis tries to smile wider. “Well, obviously.”

There’s a moment longer where Niall eyes Louis closely before finally nodding and continuing to button up his jacket.

“Right. Well. Let’s get this party started then, shall we?”

Louis looks down at his hands. “Yeah.”

He tries to sound excited.

**

They’ve arrived in a fluster of camera flashes and cologne and Louis feels so fucking out of place it isn’t even funny.

He tries to ask Niall if Zayn and Liam are coming, but he doesn’t hear him, is instead whisked away by white-toothed business men who clasp his hand as they pass him around, assessing him and throwing congratulations upon him. Niall’s never looked happier, his handshakes strong and unyielding, his smile ever present, and his witty banter confidently sparring with the stiffest shirts there. He charms everybody, as he always does, and it’s not long before Louis’ lost him altogether.

So he stands by the food most of the night, stuffing his face with hors d’oeuvres and slinging back champagne. He texts Liam and Zayn—no, they’re not coming, instead opting for “date night” (Louis might have retched) and so Louis promptly decides that all hope is lost and decides to eat his feelings.

It’s a glamorous party—startlingly glamorous—and there are celebrities peppering the mix, but it all feels so…empty. And Louis really couldn’t give a fuck about any of it, so he guzzles escargot and quail eggs, wishing he were at home surrounded by his sisters, wearing sweatpants, and playing video games.

His pants are digging into his stomach. They’re itchy too. And his shoes are too tight.

Basically, everything’s shit.

That is, until Nick Grimshaw arrives, followed by Des Styles.

And Harry.

Louis almost chokes on an oyster.

“The guests of honor,” a smiley faced bloke mutters into the microphone onstage, and a ripple of laughter flows through the room as a few hands clap and a few smiles shine brighter and a few eyes calculate closer. Everybody’s jewelry glints beneath the lights and there’s so much black and so much lipstick and so much perfume. There’s just so much.

And amidst all of that is Nick Grimshaw—basically a walking stick with a dollop of hair and lots of teeth—laughing winningly as he enters the hall wearing a pink suit and checkered scarf, and Des Styles, wearing a surly smirk beneath black eyes and a charcoal gray suit with cufflinks that look like they could support a small family.

And then there’s Harry.

Which…for some reason, it didn’t occur to Louis that he would be here. But _of course_ he would—it’s his father’s track, after all. How could Louis not have realized??

In any case, there he is.

Harry, wearing faded bruises and a bitten smile as he watches his father, clapping lightly (almost timidly) and resplendent in gray tweed and blue satin, a green carnation in his buttonhole. His hair is styled and curled perfectly, tossed to the side and looking damn near edible, it’s so perfect. He’s long and pale and beautiful and…

It’s been so long since Louis has seen him. He’s heard his name in the hallways almost every day, he’s heard rumors of his goings-about, he’s seen those pictures on Facebook, but. It’s been so long since Louis has _seen_ him in person.

And fuck.

It’s just a lot.

Amidst some murmurs and tinkling laughter, enough people seem to convince Nick Grimshaw to take the stage. He does, without much argument to be honest, and peppered applause fills the room.

Louis notices that Harry is one of the applauders. He also notices that he smiles up at Nick. And it’s a genuine smile. Heat rips through Louis’ stomach and his jaw immediately clenches. He only tears his eyes away when Nick’s voice begins cutting through the room over the speakers.

“Attention everyone?” he laughs, and he looks around, one hand in his pocket, the other sliding through his elf-hair and managing to make it even pointier and taller, and he just seems so…well… _cocky_. “Yeah, okay. So. The single’s out on Tuesday, which—“ Applause suddenly rumbles into life and he smiles, nodding, allowing it to run its course before the ruckus settles back down and he returns to the mic. “Exactly. Thank you. But yeah, the single’s out and I just want to thank Des for being the brilliant musician he is.” More applause, a bit louder this time. Des has his hands deep in his pockets, eyes flicking about the room. He seems antsy. He doesn’t even acknowledge the praise, might not even be aware of it. “And, of course, his son Harold, for whom we couldn’t have done this without.”

Louis’ eyes flick to Harry—he’s beaming, a faint blush to his cheeks as more applause fills the room, several eyes studying him approvingly. It simultaneously fills Louis with ice and fire.

“And also for being such a pretty, pretty addition to the limelight, may I just say,” Nick continues, throwing a lavish wink Harry’s way.

Louis throws back another flute of champagne, almost breaking the delicate glass in his grip.

“But yes. Thanks for coming. Now eat up, drink up, and play nice. Or not nice. Or whatever—I don’t give a fuck,” Nick finishes, waving his hands dismissively, and laughter ripples through the room before the music continues and the chatter is back in full swing, Nick descending from the stage and returning to Des and Harry. When he reaches them, he mutters something into Harry’s ear, a grin plastered to his face, and Harry laughs.

Harry _laughs_.

He laughs with other people??

Louis grabs another glass of champagne from a passing server.

This is going to be a long night.

**

Louis doesn’t see Niall for the rest of the evening—not really. He hears his laughter, hears his voice telling stories that make everybody else laugh, and he glimpses his smiling, smug face as photographers take pictures of him at the sides of important people, but he doesn’t go anywhere near Louis and Louis sort of wants to skin him alive for that.

Because without Niall, Louis knows literally nobody.

Except Harry. Who he may or may not be obsessively watching. And it hurts to watch.

Now that Nick Grimshaw has _finally_ left his side, instead charming every personality in the room with his grandiose style (thank fuck—who the fuck does this old man think he is? And how does he know Harry, again?) Harry seems to be draped in an invisible cloak, shrouding him in darkness. He stands separate, silent, like he’s…missing. That’s the only way to describe it. His stare is cast downward mostly, occasionally flicking upwards and surveying the room, exhausted. His hands clutch his untouched drink tightly.

Louis watches him the whole night, relentlessly.

Only once does Des actually acknowledge Harry, despite Harry following him timidly, watching him with anxious eyes—he follows at a slight distance, as if torn between distancing himself or stepping closer. Des looks at Harry, eyes dark and perturbed, and directs him to fetch him a drink. Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry scurries off, nodding and biting his lips.

It’s then, as Harry is carrying back two glasses of whiskey from the bar, that Harry sees Louis.

He stops, full on stops, and his eyes, which had been scowled in silence and exhaustion, widen with surprise.

Louis feels like he might be knocked off his feet.

He swallows and wants to look away, but he can’t, so he stares, standing by the tables of food, surrounded by empty champagne glasses, sauces and crumbs probably stuck to his jacket, and he wants to say something or wave or scowl or throw a bowl of soup at his head or _something_ , but all he can do is stare.

And Harry stares back.

“All right, kids,” Nick Grimshaw’s voice announces over the speakers.

Harry continues to stare at Louis, unblinking.

“For the first time ever, we are pleased to introduce…’Certain Things’!” he announces exaggeratedly, and the lights cut out suddenly as the music video is projected onto every wall.

And Louis can no longer see Harry, can only see darkness and the casted shadows from the lights of the projectors. Which, no.

Louis wasn’t done, didn’t make any sort of move, didn’t do anything _at all_ , and that’s not how he wanted to end things with Harry—not just by gaping at him like a fish—and so he moves forward, rushing to find him, but it’s dark and there are too, too many bodies and Des’ voice is filling the room, crooning in his raspy growl while Nick Grimshaw practically yodels in harmony, and everybody’s eyes are on the walls watching the music video, but Louis’ eyes search for Harry—who is already lost.

And, when the lights finally flick back on and Nick Grimshaw asks the crowd how they like it (he’s met with thunderous applause), Harry is nowhere to be seen.

**

Des leaves early. He sort of storms away, swearing and narrowly avoiding passerby, flicking his two fingers at everybody before he exits, sunglasses donned and the collar of his trench coat pulled up.

This all happens while Harry’s absent—either in the bathroom or outside for a smoke—and he mustn’t have known anything of the sort was going to happen, because it’s not long before Harry’s asking passerby where his father is.

It’s heartbreaking, really. And Louis knows, knows he shouldn’t care, knows he shouldn’t feel bad for Harry when Harry just doesn’t care about him in return or want him in his life at all… But he can’t help it.

So he watches Harry scramble around looking for answers, his face slack and perfect and the very portrait of a Shakespeare tragedy. It’s like watching the final scene of Hamlet, all within his features. A mass murder, a total destruction, a bloodbath.

Except Louis thinks Harry is probably Ophelia and he’s probably already drowned.

**

It’s later now, past midnight, but the party only grows louder, more bodies stuffed into the space, and the elegance is slipping into something more familiar—debauchery. And Niall’s probably at the heart of it all and Louis should probably find him soon if he wants a ride back to their flat, but all Louis can do is notice that Harry is gone.

He’d gone missing while Louis had went to the loo—and narrowly avoided a cluster of very insistent men who looked as if they were about to gobble Louis up whole—and he’s searched every damn corner of the building, only to come up with absolutely nothing. And he’s about to give up, about to just say ‘fuck it’ and bury himself in distraction and pleasure, when a niggling thought makes its way to his brain, and suddenly, Louis knows where Harry is. He just does.

Quietly, he makes his way outside. He wanders around the outskirts of the building, searching with squinted, determined eyes in the darkness against the icy breezes, the moon dim and bitter, until he sees a lone figure perched on the grand stone stairs leading to the balcony.

He knows immediately that he’s found him.

He doesn’t bother approaching timidly, doesn’t waste time in wondering if this is okay or if this is a mistake. He just walks to Harry, walks up to him, and as soon as his footsteps begin crunching against the frozen grass within Harry’s range of hearing, the boy’s head snaps up. The darkness hides his face. All Louis can see is the outline of his body and his mess of curly hair that glows blue.

Wordlessly, Louis sits beside him. The stone is freezing under his bum, instantly sending a shiver through his body. It’s also hard as fuck.

Good thing he drank so much champagne.

Harry’s staring at him, wildly and confused, almost fearfully, his face fully turned towards him and his brow pinched to the point where it looks downright uncomfortable. His features are lit up by moonlight from this angle, and everything looks fragile, like it’s made from porcelain or delicate pottery. Truth be told, Harry probably really is made of delicate pottery. With tiny, tiny cracks covering the surface. Cracks that show in Harry’s face at this very moment.

Louis ignores the cracks, just clasps his hands together and stares up at the sky.

“What are you doing?” Harry finally asks, voice low and raspy. He hasn’t blinked.

“Sitting with you. Obviously.” Louis smirks a bit, ignoring the butterfly conservatory that’s just sprouted inside of his stomach, trying to make the situation light.

There’s a heavy pause.

Then:

“Why?”

But it’s not cold, it’s not angry. It’s confused. It’s guarded. It’s…hopeful?

Or maybe Louis’ just imagining that.

“Because.” And now Louis turns to face Harry, sets his eyes on him, and it’s the closest he’s been to him in what feels like ages, years, centuries. Millenniums. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”

And it’s there.

It’s then that Harry’s face actually physically breaks, his furrowed brow releasing and his eyes flooding with _something_ and his lips parting ever so slightly. He’s shaking his head, shaking his head with disbelief, and his voice is agitated, confused, and so worn out.

“Why do you care?” he asks desperately, but he doesn’t move away from Louis and he doesn’t look away.

Louis inhales, exhales, and is so cold he might actually die of hypothermia, but he stares at Harry unflinchingly and all he wants  to do is press the pads of his fingers to his skin, to make sure Harry’s all there and nothing’s broken. That the cracks really aren’t there. He clenches his fist on his thigh to fight the urge.

“Because, Harry. I do. Even if you don’t care about me in return, I care about you. I just do. Simple as that. And I need to know if you’re all right,” he says quietly, in the most honest tone he can manage.

It’s like the surface of the earth actually cracks then. That’s what it feels like.

Because one minute Louis is staring at Harry as if he’s behind glass, distant and untouchable, and then suddenly everything that’s hanging in the air just bursts, and Harry crumples. He starts sobbing—openly, unashamedly, and bluntly—and he’s slumped, hugging himself around the middle as tears just pour down his face, and Louis watches this, startled, watches Harry’s eyes press tightly closed, watches his mouth go slack, watches as he breaks in front of him and _sobs_.

“Harry,” Louis can only barely manage, shocked and startlingly affected, his voice cracking, and fuck, this hurts, this is _painful._ And he doesn’t care, he has to fucking touch him, to comfort, so he wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him to his chest, his own eyes glistening.

Harry doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight one bit, just lets himself be engulfed as he clutches Louis' shirt tightly within his fists, too many tears spilling freely over the cotton, and his shakes rack through Louis’ body and soul and so Louis clutches him tighter as the moon watches them. It's a lot.

“Louis,” Harry manages amidst his sobs, and it’s said so broken, so ruined, so destroyed and pitiful, that Louis thinks he might just die. He might actually die.

Because in that one voice, he can hear every broken bit inside Harry. He can hear every single thing that went wrong in his life, every struggle, every ounce of pain, and suddenly he just understands it all. Understands how _fucked up_ this all is. He can hear everything in Harry that’s clung to his soul and his very makeup—like stepping onto glass, imbedding shards and leaving scars, too delicate of incisions to ever properly heal or smooth over.

It’s then that he lets his own tears fall—and fuck, he hates crying, especially hates it when the tears roll down his neck and under his shirt collar—but he’s only human and Harry. _Harry_. Harry, who is so, so sad and so, so fucked up and who is seeking refuge in Louis’ arms and practically wailing his name in his quiet, ghosting way, is breaking his goddamn heart and he’s not a fucking robot, is he?

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Harry continues to sob, and his lips are muffled by Louis’ shirt and chest, and Louis briefly wonders if Harry can hear the pounding of his heart—which is almost violent now—or at least the drips of it as it bleeds all over the fucking place.

And normally, Louis wouldn’t want someone to know that they’re fucking him up on the inside. He never wants people to know how he feels or what he thinks or any of that shit that’s reserved specially for him. But he doesn’t mind if Harry knows. Almost _wants_ Harry to know. Wants Harry to know that his heart is beating like this for him.

“It’s okay,” he mutters into his hair, and he tries to keep his voice calm and soothing, trying not to choke on his own tears. “I’m here,” he mumbles repeatedly, “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Which releases another wrecked sob from Harry.

So Louis holds him closer, impossibly closer, and buries his face within his curls with the knowledge that, no matter what, he will never, ever let this boy go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O God, was this sad? Was it not sad? I felt like it was sad but I just really hope not too sad? In any case, I'm happy to say that it all gets a lot less sad from here on out (I hope) so yay! There's that?
> 
> The special, depressing song for this chappa is: Nirvana - "You Know You're Right" It's such a sad song, but so appropriate for this, especially for Harry :( 
> 
> Okayyyy so you guys are gorgeous and my apologies if this was brutal and depressing and shitty, but it sorta had to happen. It has to get worse before it gets better, ya know? So. :)
> 
> Come at me on tumblr (mizzwilde) if you have any questions or want a chat or want to send me quotes or anon messages in all caps. Heh. Ily all. I will hopefully post the next bit soon--it's so much happier! And it'll be Christmas, so YAY! Louis' birthday! :) 
> 
> *smooches*


	26. XXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis misses Harry.

It isn’t much longer before Louis takes Harry home from his father’s release party.

They sit together on the way back, tucked in Harry’s limo together in the middle of the seat, Harry lightly slumped into Louis’ side as the bumps of the road press them closer together.

It’s…odd.

They haven’t spoken since Harry cried—Harry hasn’t even _looked_ at Louis since he let the tears slip from his eyes. Rather, he’d just followed him blindly, like a soggy pup lost in a rainstorm,  and Louis lead him by the waist through the throngs of guests smoking on the parameters of the hotel, their strings of smoke twisting together and clogging Louis’ lungs. He led Harry away, safely and efficiently, and now they’re safe inside the car and on their way home and…it’s just _odd_. Louis is unsure if he should speak, touch, comfort, or let alone. He can still feel where Harry’s tears dampened his shirt, can still hear his racked, primitive anguish and the way his name was lamented from Harry’s mouth, so painfully and so helplessly that it stirred even the relatively colder tendrils that Louis is composed of. And he wants to reach out, clasp Harry’s frail hand between his own or nose comfortingly into the curls that are resting so close to his cheek or, hell, clutch onto his waist with hands that don't hesitate…but more than all this, he just want to treat the situation right. He wants to treat Harry right. Doesn’t want to overload him or crowd him.

So instead he just gently lays his head atop Harry’s own—which has tiredly come to slide onto his shoulder—with feather-soft care, just barely resting upon the silky tresses of hair that could inspire the next Renaissance. He exhales peacefully, his body filling with simple relief for the mere fact that Harry is here, this close, and safe.

It feels good to have him back.

In the fleeting glow of the street lamps he sees the droop of Harry’s eyelids in response to Louis’ movement, but he says nothing and never stirs, just stares out of the window, quiet and worn, a small sort of serenity overcoming his breathing as the orange glows elongate his eyelashes and the shadows of his face. It’s begun raining—or rather, sleeting—and it’s splattering against the windows, icy and abrasive, but Louis can’t quite bring himself to care because right now he feels warm and dry and a lot of other things that he thinks he could feel forever in some whimsical, intangible, wonderful way.

And then suddenly the car stops. They’re outside of the outer gardens—near Harry’s rooms. They’re back.

He tries not to indulge the flash of unhappiness he feels flit through his system as Harry begins sitting upwards, pulling his body completely off of Louis’ and ripping away the warmth that had begun to spread to his bones and the corners of his tight, polished shoes. Harry breathes softly as he straightens his jacket, stares out into the dripping darkness. He makes no movement to speak as he blinks slow, long, eternal blinks. He’s shaded and tired. He looks like a poem. One of those mournfully beautiful ones with short, unfamiliar words that sound ethereal when spoken and completely nonsensical when thought. The kind you find in the back of the book and dog-ear because you want to poke at it a bit later, when your head's a bit clearer. Written by a Romantic poet with a name that sounds like a soft breath and a reputation.

Fuck, Louis has had too much champagne. Too, too much.

“We’re here,” Louis says softly, eyes trained on Harry who is still staring out of the window, his fists clenching onto his open jacket.

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

Silence.

Louis swallows.

What now?

Louis rips his gaze from Harry, bringing it to his lap where he now fidgets with his sleeve. “Did you want any company or anything?” he asks nonchalantly, but his voice sounds altered and he’s mentally cursing his vocal cords and their ability to unfailingly shame him. He glances up, schooling his face into practiced ease. “I mean, if you’re still feeling shit, that is. Or. Whatever.”

He tries not to wince at how utterly wretched he sounds.

Fuck.

But Harry (somehow) smiles, quiet and blooming, looking down at his own lap.

“I should probably just go to bed, actually,” he says, soft and rumbling like thunder. Or maybe that's the storm. 

It pings Louis a bit—because he finds himself wanting to go with him, wants to watch over him as he sleeps like a fairy fucking godmother and smooth the wrinkles of his brow if he dreams in nightmares (embarrassing)—but all he can do is merely nod in response, the discomfort of his too-tight trousers digging into his waist providing an almost welcome distraction.

“But thank you,” Harry adds, lifting his puffy, lidded eyes to Louis for the first time.

Despite not having permission to do so, Louis’ insides pool.

Because Harry’s eyes are lovely and warm, warmer than Louis’ ever seen them, and they’re smiling in an odd, perfect way, filled with something almost akin to…affection. It’s the most unfamiliar and mesmerizing spectacle he’s ever seen. It’s breathtaking. And, yes, he’s _definitely_ had too much champagne.

“You’re welcome,” Louis manages, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare into Harry’s earthen jade orbs of sweet motherfucking nectar that he had previously thought could only be procured by something like Disney. (He’s never drinking champagne again.) “And if I don’t see you before we leave for holiday—“

“You will,” Harry immediately interrupts, voice soft as he continues to stare calmly at Louis, eyes still warm and burning Louis’ jugular. “Zayn’s having a luncheon tomorrow before we depart.”

Depart. Louis tries not to roll his eyes at his uppity cordiality, despite his intense feelings of…whatever it is he’s feeling.

And then the words sink in.

Zayn? Luncheon? Tomorrow? Huh?

“Funny,” Louis says, furrowing his brow, “he never said anything.”

There’s a quiet moment then, where Harry doesn’t reply but just merely studies Louis’ face in the quiet, amber light of the limo, the icy drizzle creating metallic clunks as it collides with the metal of the roof.

At last, he speaks, lips slow to form the words. "Until tomorrow then, Louis.”

Louis nods, feeling a smile form. “Indeed, Harold.”

And Harry smiles again, small and beatifically despite the red rims of his eyes and the exhaustion that pales his skin. It’s sort of like when there’s a wildflower that sprouts from an errant crack in concrete—a small, glorious splash of color that struggles through the mundane and changes the world with its simplistic perfection. That’s what Harry’s smiles are like.

… Too much champagne. Simplistic perfection? This is just getting extremely embarrassing.

“Goodnight, Curly,” Louis forces himself to say before he starts mentally comparing Harry’s lips to rose petals (because of the champagne, obviously), and is just climbing out of the car when Harry’s hand lands on his wrist, warm and solid against the icy breezes that are now slinking through the open door.

“No. Stay. Burns will drive you to your flat.”

“Harry,” Louis protests, feeling sudden, flooding warmth bloom within his ribs because his body is an over-sensitive sap. “It's no big deal. It’s not even a five minute walk—“

“I insist,” Harry presses, hand still clamped on his wrist. “It’s freezing outside. And raining. Please. Let him drive you back.”

And maybe it’s because Harry Styles said ‘please’ or maybe it’s because it really is freezing outside and the walk is absolutely more than five minutes, but Louis begrudgingly closes the door of the limo and sits back inside, unable to resist a light roll of the eyes.

Harry almost beams, pleased and relieved.

Louis thinks he really needs to stop drinking, given the way his chest feels a bit caved in and irreparable.

“Thank you. Now. Goodnight, Louis.” With one last lingering press of his hand upon Louis’ wrist, Harry climbs out of the vehicle, Burns already at his door and holding an umbrella. Louis watches as his blurry, darkened form disappears into the night.

Until tomorrow, then.

**

It’s as Louis is lying in bed, safe and warm (and Niall still isn’t home, which is of no surprise whatsoever) that Louis decides to send the most useless text he’s ever sent.

_‘Goodnight Harry’_

He doesn’t get a response—he wasn’t expecting to—but it doesn’t stop him from falling asleep almost immediately for the first time in two weeks.

**

Louis doesn’t know why the fuck he’s going to this luncheon.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see the boys before they leave for holiday break. He does, obviously, and very much so. But the thing is… Louis isn’t sure where he and Harry stand. Are they friends again? Or did they just part amicably? These are things that Louis needs to know.

And normally Louis would be stressing about this to Niall, but unfortunately he hasn’t stopped talking since he came home (very early in the morning, deciding to wake Louis up with a body slam in bed and a never-ending chat about how incredible his night was; which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t smelled so strongly of weed and alcohol and several different perfumes) and is currently more occupied in trying to decide which party to attend first over holiday.

“…but I hear George Van Eyck’s parties are sick and I know his cousin’s a big name in the record companies, so I figure I might as well get in cozy there, eh? Besides, his mum is fit. And he always has good weed. You can’t go wrong, right?” Niall blathers, cheeks pink with the cold as they ascend the staircase to Zayn’s rooms. His hands are deep in the pockets of his black peacoat, and a thick, wool scarf is wrapped loosely around his neck. He’s the perfect picture of winter, contrasting with the warmth of his lilting voice.

But Louis is barely listening.

Because they’re closing in upon Zayn’s door. And behind Zayn’s door is Harry. And though, yes, him and Louis shared a moment last night—if that’s what you call it? Because it felt like a fucking moment—he can’t help but fear Harry’s temperament and his reaction to the situation. Will he recoil? Hide? Lash out? Be a total prick? Will he even be there?

Fuck, he should’ve just went home. He could’ve been sat on his couch, surrounded by his sisters by now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

When they finally reach Zayn’s door, Niall bursts forth without any hesitation.

“Mates!” he exclaims, arms outstretched in a welcoming embrace as he clomps forward, and Zayn’s smile immediately flashes into existence from where he’s sitting at the head of the table. Within mere seconds of entering the space, Niall’s got his glass filled with whiskey, a lit cigarette, and a plate filled with food. It’s like he’s equipped with his own personal army of tiny, invisible nymphs that flit about him, serving his every need.

Louis is far quieter than his predecessor, skulking in quietly and taking in the scene, his white jumper hot against his skin and his jacket buttoned too tightly to his chest.

“Niall! Louis!” Liam greets happily, slapping Niall’s back happily before making his way to Louis. He sits in front of him, perched upon the edge of the table, staring eagerly like a child would his favorite teacher.

“Liam, mate,” Louis smiles, fiercely fighting the urge to search for Harry in his peripherals. Is he here?? Is he happy?? Is he hurt?? Is he here?? And, god, he can't even blame his jittery attentiveness to champagne.

“How are you? We’re so sorry we couldn’t make it last night to the party. I heard it was excellent, though,” Liam grins, teeth impossibly white.

Louis nods absently, his brain whirring. “Yeah, yeah. Excellent, yeah.” His jacket is still on and his hands are still stuffed in his pockets, palms sweaty. He can feel Zayn staring at him curiously.

“I’m just happy that exams are over, to be honest,” Liam then laughs, oblivious. “I feel so much better now. I could barely keep my head on for awhile there.”

Louis nods, his throat feeling dry. The room is warm and decorated for Christmas—probably Harry’s doing. It smells like ginger and spice and cocoa. With undertones of herbs. Definitely Harry's doing.

“The newspaper did excellent, I’m happy to say,” Liam beams.

“He’s even got recognition from the school board,” Zayn adds from his throne, lazy and happy, sipping his glass with unmistakable pride. “Everyone’s talking about it. Say he’s the best editor to come around in over forty years.”

Liam’s smile could very possibly split his face. “Who would’ve thought?” he exclaims in his grin, picking up a nearby glass filled with deep red wine. “I did excellently on all my projects as well.” He takes a sip. “I’m just happy to be back to normal, though. Such a relief.”

And, yeah, it is nice to see Liam smiling again, posing perfectly and being the effortless host—Zayn’s other, cleanly smiling, half. Louis is happy that he’s no longer grouchy or strained or stressed or sleep-deprived or wearing a sweatsuit and staring helplessly at his laptop as he flits about the room, hopped up on caffeine and uppers and various other forms of “aids” that enable machine-like efficiency and no sleep whatsoever.

But the thing is.

He can’t be all that engaged in the conversation at the moment. Because Harry has just walked into the room. And Louis’ eyes find him instantly. Because he's embarrassing.

He’s wearing a cream jumper and vermilion trousers. He looks cozy and clean and freshly scrubbed, like he’d just taken a bath and still smells like warm soap. His hair is soft and tumbling, his feet are clad in thick, forest green socks, and he’s walking calmly, his movements smooth and relaxed. His face is equally so, looking like he’d gotten a proper night’s sleep, and Louis doesn’t know if he’s seen him yet, but he certainly sees Harry, and everything about him exudes holiday cheer and sweetness and warmth and—

“Louis?”

Louis snaps his gaze away, looking back to Liam who is staring at him expectantly.

“Hi? Yes?” he asks dumbly, feeling a flush form in his cheeks as his peripherals catch Harry’s figure stilling. He feels his gaze find him. But all he can do is stare unblinkingly at Liam in response.

“Would you like a beverage? Tea? Water? Wine? Champagne?”Liam asks, in a tone that suggests he’s repeating himself.

“Uhm—“

“D’you have any good whiskey on hand?” Niall then barks from across the room.

Which…thank fuck for Niall.

Because that distracts Liam easily enough as he hops up happily off from his perch on the table and rushes to Zayn’s liquor cabinet in the corner, spouting pleasantries and suggestions with ease.

Louis stays planted, eyes seeking Harry once more and, yep, he’s staring at Louis from across the room. He looks quiet and peaceful, his eyes mildly sad but pleased to see him—genuinely pleased—and crinkling slightly with a small smile. And Louis doesn’t really know what to do or what to say (does he acknowledge what happened or…?) so he finds himself sending forth an awkward little wave, at a complete loss for anything else.

The gesture causes Harry’s smile to grow, just barely, and he returns the wave, small and sweet.

At that, there’s a definitive rush of blood to Louis’ head, and he’s just made the decision to walk over to Harry, Harry smiling as Louis takes the first step, when suddenly he feels a hand rest on his shoulder and—oh.

Zayn.

“Can I help you?” he asks, sounding bitchier than he meant to with one eyebrow raised, body very much set on finding Harry. He tries to withhold his impatience.

Zayn meets his eyes, calm and cool, nodding his head in the opposite direction. “A moment,” he more commands than asks, and Louis nods immediately. There’s just something about Zayn that allows no room for refusal. Maybe it’s the quiet intensity of his eyes. Or the sharpness of his teeth. Or maybe it’s the way he breathes curls of smoke and guides you with a coy smile. Or maybe it's because he's intimidatingly attractive and you can't help but find yourself getting lost in the sex that oozes out of his pores.

Either way, Louis finds himself following Zayn, leading him farther away from Harry and to the opposite end of the room, tucked away by a row of collectible action figures and framed comic books. A rather nerdy section, if Louis’ being honest. He’s long ago learned that Zayn is rather a large dork, despite his intimidating countenance. Loveable and easily pleased.

“Do you know what’s going on with Harry?” Zayn asks immediately, sparing no thought for transition or hesitation.

Louis blinks, startled. “Going on? Do you mean in general, or…?”

“Today,” Zayn says, silken voice dropping in volume. “Something’s changed. He’s better than he’s been lately. Still not himself, but. He seems…different.”

At that, Louis’ stomach swoops. Hard. It might have even fallen out of his ass and plummeted through the floorboards, leaving a shimmering gold sun in its wake. Because Louis’ insides are definitely now coated in warm, glittering light. Fuck being embarrassment, fuck champagne-based excuses. Louis feels warm, goddammit, and it's a remarkable experience.

“Different, you say?” Louis asks, weakly, appearing nonchalant and casual. “Howso?”

Zayn sighs, turning to look at Harry who is now taking a seat beside Niall, pouring him another glass of whiskey and smiling as the aforementioned boy tells an exaggerated story that’s sending Liam into fits of giggles.

“I can’t explain, really. And he hasn’t said anything to me. I’m just wondering if it has something to do with Des. Or…anything else in his life.” He turns his face to Louis. “Do you know anything at all?”

And shit. Here’s the crossroads.

What is he supposed to say? That Harry cried like a baby last night and Louis (who may or may not have also let a tear or two slip) promised to never leave him? Like some awful romance novel? That they’re friends again in some strange, indefinable, poetic way that nobody in the world seems to be able to understand, least especially Louis or Harry?

But really, is that even the reason Harry’s acting different? Could he really be so bold as to assume this change of behavior is attributed to him? What if something’s happened with Des and that’s the real reason? Or anyone else in Harry's life that's more important.

Of course it isn’t Louis. Des probably just said something kind or apologized for being the worst father in the world or maybe his heroin addict sister called him or…whatever. Whatever the reason for Harry’s mood change, Louis can’t be it. It’s just too unlikely.

So Louis shakes his head.

“I’ve no idea, mate, sorry.”

Zayn nods, watching Louis closely.

“Was he at all different at the party?”

Louis shifts. “Not really. A bit quiet, I suppose.”

Zayn stares at Louis carefully, eyes intent.  “What about the song? How did everybody react to the song?”

The song?

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Er. They liked it, I suppose. I haven’t heard any complaints.”

At that Zayn breathes a sigh of relief, eyes flicking back to Harry. Which is…strange.

“Why?” Louis asks, now watching Zayn who glances at him briefly.

“No reason,” he says breezily after a pause, before sliding a cigarette out of his gilt case. He offers one to Louis who shakes his head. “Well, whatever’s going on with him, I hope it continues. It’s good to see him smiling again.”

And then Zayn’s gone, taking his place beside Liam and pressing his cigarette to his lips reverently while Louis reassembles the broken pieces of his brain.

The rest of the luncheon goes smoothly. The boys toast the term, exchanging the better memories and laughing off the worse ones, pouring generous amounts of liquor and eggnog in each others’ cups. Symphonic Christmas music wafts from the speakers of Zayn’s stereo system, and the sky outside is grayish white, with tiny flecks of snow falling sporadically. It’s warm and cozy and festive, and as Louis tells story after story of Niall’s escapades with the piano and Rory, the boys laugh louder and smile brighter and everything just feels familiar and nice. Almost like home, even.

It’s odd to think he’ll be leaving for his actual home within only a few short hours, and staying there for almost a month. These faces he’s come to associate with ‘every day’ he will now be separated from for weeks. It leaves a sad sort of reluctance within him.

Which only grows larger when Harry suddenly rises from Zayn’s piano (all the talk of Niall’s goings-on inspired him, sending him into spiraling piano twirls of Christmas tunes that the boys attempted to sing along with tipsily, mouths filled with meat pies) and assembles himself with a, “I better be off. Burns’ll be here soon.”

Louis’ heart sinks. A tad.

“To take you home?” he asks from the table, attempting to camouflage the disappointment in his voice.

Harry nods. “Yeah. I want to get back as soon as I can.”

And that doesn’t sit well with Louis, the idea of Harry returning to that home of his as soon as he can, but Harry’s face is confident, not the least bit fearful or discomforted, so Louis leaves it alone and instead just nods.

“I’ll see you all soon, of course,” Harry says with a smile. “Probably far sooner than we’d like. Happy Christmas. Save the best sweets for me.” He winks at them all as Zayn rolls his eyes and Liam and Niall chuckle fondly, but his eyes stray lingeringly on Louis for the briefest of moments (or is that the eggnog talking?) before he turns away.

And no.

No.

Harry cannot just leave Zayn’s rooms like it’s nothing so he can go home for a _month_. He won’t be seeing any of them—not one of them—and he cannot just walk away as if this is no big thing. Because it’s practically an entire month, damn it--over thirty days--and that’s a long time, and if he thinks that he can just waltz away like that then, well, he’s got another thing coming.

“I actually still need to pack,” Louis says before he knows what he’s doing, shooting up out of his chair.

Harry pauses.

“Better get going myself. Mind if I join you?” he asks, and he feels Zayn, Liam, and Niall’s eyes turn to look up at him.

Surprised, Harry turns around. “Join me?”

“Yes.”

Harry and Louis stare at each other as the other boys’ eyes flick between the two curiously.

“Yeah, all right. Come on then, Louis Tomlinson, hurry it up,” Harry says cheekily, but that dimple’s flashing pleasantly and his face is sincere, so Louis smiles as he makes to stand and accompanies him by the door.

“I’ll ring you lads later, yeah?” Louis says, grinning at the boys.

“Course,” Zayn says easily, as Liam smiles winningly.

“At your leisure, of course,” he says.

“I’ll see you at the flat, yeah?” Niall asks, leaning back in his chair casually. “You won’t leave before I get back?”

“No, yeah, I’ll see you at the flat,” Louis assures as he buttons his jacket.

“Good. I’ve got a goodbye present,” Niall says lewdly, sending forth a wink and smirking at the boys as they titter in response.

Harry quirks an eyebrow but says nothing, instead opening the door for Louis. “After you?”

“Always,” Louis grins with a bat of his eyelashes, and he waves goodbye, feeling nostalgic and pleased at once.

And then, suddenly the door closes and it’s just him and Harry.

“Thanks for letting me join you, Curly. It’s nice when you’re not antisocial,” Louis teases, descending Zayn’s steps, careful to keep in pace with Harry’s measured, meandering strides.

A light chuckle reminiscent of jingle bells slips from Harry’s lips. “Can’t say I’ve ever been called antisocial before.”

“Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything.”

Harry smiles, shaking his bowed head.

There’s a brief silence, the only sound being the soft patters of their feet against ancient stone steps, and Louis is thinking a thousand million thoughts, each one persistently bubbling in the back of his throat, threatening to emerge.

“So…are you all right, then? Everything good today?” he asks, hoping his voice conveys a casual ease.

They’re now outside, slowly making their way towards Harry’s rooms. He can see the staircase coming into view. Soft speckles of snow imbed in Harry’s curls.

“Yeah. It’s good,” Harry says after a moment’s pause, and Louis can tell he’s forcing himself to speak, is putting forth the effort to communicate honestly with Louis.

Which Louis appreciates to no end. Harry’s _trying_.

“And you really want to go home sooner rather than later?” Louis can’t help but ask, feet crunching frozen grass. His breath puffs before him before sneaking up to the heavens, taking his words with it.

Harry nods immediately. “Yes. I don’t want to leave my father on his own for too long. It’s not good for him to be alone.”

“It’s not?”

Harry’s not looking at him, eyes instead set on the crunchy, snow speckled ground. “He’s not good with his thoughts. Like…he has a tendency to wallow.” A twisted smile curls at his cold lips. It’s wry and it’s fleeting, and then his face becomes masked in calm. “But the new single should help. He’ll have performances to attend. He might even get nominated for an award—he’d like that. It gives him something to focus on. So. He should be better. But I still like to keep an eye on him.”

Louis sighs.

How the fuck does Harry manage to be such a doting son? He can’t even stomach a conversation with his mum and she’s not half as difficult to deal with. Guilt begins to worm its way into his stomach at the thought, grows even moreso as he finds himself dreading seeing her.

“Why are you so good to him?” he asks, watching Harry as they near the staircase by the gardens. The snow swirls around them.

Harry shrugs. “He’s my father.”

“So?”

“He’s family, Louis.”

They climb the icy steps. Louis feels more questions bubbling in the back of his throat.

“What about the rest of your family?” he dares to ask, his hands uncommonly cold and stiff, only partly due to the climate.

Harry stiffens.

“That’s…another story.” He glances up at Louis. “But I’m not interested in such chatter now though, anyway. It’s Christmas, Louis. A time of cheer,” he says, almost ironically. Then, “And an incredible color selection.”

Louis laughs despite himself, despite the unease and curiosity that sits in the spaces between his fingers and the back of his neck. “Fair enough, fair enough,” he smiles, just as they reach the door to Harry’s rooms. “I’ll stop asking overly personal questions for a change. Consider it a Christmas present.”

Harry’s lips quirk. “I don’t think I could’ve asked for a better one.”

Another laugh escapes Louis.

“But.” Harry stops, eyes rested on the snow-smeared stone beneath their feet. “I like that you ask.”

Louis wants to press it, wants to (possibly) squeeze out a few more gem sentences from those iced Christmas lips, but he doesn’t, instead breathes out his emotions and paces himself, only allowing himself a small grin.

“I like asking,” he says in response, and his voice has gone traitorously soft.

The barely-there smile on Harry’s face threatens to grow, but Harry manages to keep it at bay, his eyes glued to his feet. “I should go,” he eventually says, voice formal and rich. His gaze returns to Louis, casual and reserved. “I haven’t even begun to assemble my things into any form of organization. It’s going to be a bit of a horrid mess, this packing business.”

“You could always have Burns do it,” Louis suggests with a smirk.

“Burns would stuff _me_ in the suitcase before he would one of my belongings,” Harry says, and they laugh lightly, the sound tinkling against the falling snow.

They’re standing there, staring at each other, and it’s pretty cold and very white out, and Louis truthfully does need to actually pack still. Basically, he needs to leave. Right about now.

“Well, Happy Christmas then, Curly,” he says with chapped lips that feel numb from the cold breezes.

“Happy Christmas, Louis,” Harry replies with a smile he tucks into his chest.

“I hope you’re showered with the best presents—and none that come in the form of venereal diseases.”

Harry bursts into surprised laughter. “You’re very unfair,” he criticizes, but he’s still got his smile on, his cheeks kissed with a blush and his eyes alight. And how the fuck do his eyes manage to glow like that? It’s like someone’s installed lightbulbs behind each socket and they just shine like little stars set in the nebulas of Harry’s face. And, no, he’s not even going to mention that crater of a dimple. He will not.

They’re about to part. Louis can feel it. Really, he should just smile a goodbye and walk away, leaving this damn snow queen behind until they reunite next term.

But Louis never does what he should do. So instead he hugs Harry.

With determined arms he steps forward, engulfing the boy in his tight embrace, standing on his tippy toes and wrapping arms around Harry’s neck.

At first Harry doesn’t know how to react. He just sort of stiffens and stands with his hands at his sides. But then slowly he relents and wraps long arms around Louis’ waist, enveloping him, and Louis feels his face digging into his skin and the tickle of his eyelashes as his eyes close.

It’s a bit overwhelming in some inexplicable way. The way Harry smells and feels and the way that this might be the most incredible hug in the world? Ever? Louis feels Harry’s nose buried into his neck and for some reason it feels like every single valve in his body has been turned on full blast and he’s drowning in something he can’t quite explain.

At long last, they part, Louis still holding onto Harry’s jumper, his hand clustered in the fabric at his side. Harry notices, glancing down with lashes that cut into skin that matches snow. And that should really be enough to have Louis let go and step back. But instead he just stares, his hand warm, and _everything_ suddenly feels warm despite the wintry chill, flecks of snow sticking to Harry’s glazed red cheeks and his crimson lips, moistening his eyelashes, and dusting his hair. He looks like a fucking art project, like something a student took months to think up and create.

They continue to stand, Harry watching Louis quietly, his head slightly tilted, not moving a muscle, and his breathing is slow and quiet and peaceful, and Louis just doesn’t want to let go. That’s probably not normal, is it?

And he hasn’t even had any champagne.

With a determination that is stronger than it should be, Louis forces himself to release Harry’s jumper, Harry’s eyes quiet and watchful and softly green, giving life to their wintry surroundings.

“I’ll see you next year,” Louis says, smiling a bit weakly, taking a step back.

Harry watches him, face unreadable.

“Bye, Curly,” he mutters, then turns around and walks away before Harry can speak a word.

**

He’s been home for six days and it’s already too long.

It’s not that it isn’t good to be back—his sisters have missed him terribly, all piling upon him whenever he’s in the room and tugging at his clothes for attention. Hell, as soon as he’d stepped through the door upon his return, they all ran at him with all the fury of the Valkyries, embracing his every limb and singing his name. That is, except for Charlotte, the oldest, who pouted for three hours until she finally warmed up to Louis’ incessant jokes and silly voices.

A begrudging smile lifted her lips.

“You never visit anymore,” is all she says as he pokes at her sides teasingly, her giggles filling the gaps between the words.

His heart tugs a bit—because, no, he hadn’t visited, and it was in no small way due to their mother. Which is wrong on several levels. And terribly selfish.

Louis is a bad person.

“I know. I’m shit,” he says dramatically, swinging his arms around her and tugging her to his chest as he lifts her off her feet.

She screeches out a giggle before he settles her gently back onto the ground, and her smile is bright, her golden hair frizzy.

“Yeah, you are,” she agrees, but she’s still smiling. “You could give us a ring, you know.”

“I Facebook you!”

“’S not the same!”

“How is it not??”

“Can’t hear your voice, can I?” she says, and her pout is back, just a bit, as she folds her arms across her pale pink jumper.

Louis’ smile softens. Fuck, he really did miss his sisters. Even if his mother is a bit of a cow (she’s been rather good though, to be fair, and hasn’t left the house mysteriously or spent all day in her room, locked away; she has, however, asked incessantly about Niall and flits between obsessing over Louis’ presence—coddling him like mad—and forgetting he’s there altogether) he really will need to make more of an effort to return home more often next term.

“I missed you, Arl,” he smiles, mussing up her hair.

“Good,” she beams, swatting at his hand, before walking into the kitchen together.

So it’s been pretty good in that aspect.

He’s also managed to see Stan almost every day. If they’re not kicking about in the snow or at the shops, they’re in Louis’ house, or Stan’s house, or a mutual friend’s house—anywhere, really. Which is wonderful because Louis really misses Stan. Misses his churly smiles and smacks to his ribcage and the way he can always, always make him laugh.

But he does _not_ miss his cheek.

“Got anyone special, then?” Stan asks cheekily as they’re lying down on the floor of his room, lazily passing a bowl back and forth. The room smells of pizza and beer and cinnamon. It’s all very holiday.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Why hello mum, when did you get here?” he mutters wryly, licking his dry, smoke-tinged lips.

Stand laughs, throwing a dirty sock in his face. “Oi, I’m only being friendly. Suppose I might as well put the effort into pretending to care.”

“Good effort there, Stan. A plus,” Louis smiles with a fond roll of the eyes. But there is a quiet, inquisitive whisper within him that warms to the idea, and suddenly Harry’s at the forefront of his mind again.

And that’s why Louis has been home too long. That’s why six days is just too much and he needs to go back to school. Because Harry. And thoughts of Harry. And looking at a blank phone and not hearing from Harry. And having absolutely no idea if Harry’s even all right or if he’s unwell or if he’s missing or…anything.

He hears from Zayn and Liam almost every day. He gets drunken snapchats from Niall sporadically and an occasional affectionate “I MISS U U CUNT”s in all caps, followed by emojis that he didn’t think Niall even knew existed.  He hears from them all. But he never hears from Harry.

And he needs to go back to school.

“I’m not with anyone, no,” Louis says after a moment’s pause. “And I’m not interested in anyone. Not like that. But. I’ve got this friend…” His insides twist a bit, just at the mention of Harry. He hasn’t really talked about him to his family. Hasn’t mentioned him to his mum or his sisters. It’s like Harry doesn’t even exist when he’s home, is just some imaginary phantom that visits his dreams, so speaking of him now, hearing these words slip into the familiar air that he’s breathed since birth…well.

It’s like Harry’s blanketed all areas of his life now. He’s become part of Louis’ own existence. By merely mentioning him, Louis is cementing Harry’s place, and it feels warm and electric and strange and terrifyingly awful, but he presses on anyways because he just _has_ to.

“Go on,” Stan says impatiently after Louis falls silent.

“I’ve got this friend, see. And he’s…fucking weird. Really weird. Like, carries around teacups and flowers and has obsessions with strawberries kinda weird.”

Stan raises his eyebrows. “He sounds like a hipster.”

Louis snorts. “No, no. He’s _actually_ weird. And he’s rich as fuck and crazy and…his father is Des Styles.”

“Sick!” Stan says, attention immediately caught. “He’s just released that new track with Nick Grimshaw. Have you heard it? It’s fucking wicked. D’you think he could get us into a concert?”

Well, shit. Now Louis feels like a real twat. Because he _really_ hasn’t talked to Stan enough.

“I have heard it, actually. I, er, went to the single release party.”

Stan’s eyes bug. “You what?”

“Yeah.” Louis ducks his head. “It was a bit of a mess, though. Harry and I were sorta fighting and Niall just abandoned me and—“

“Wait. Harry? Niall? Who are they?”

And that’s strange, too. Because Harry and Niall are what Louis’ life consists of now and Stan, his best mate of forever, doesn’t even know who they are. It’s really strange.

“Well, Harry’s the…friend. And Niall’s my flatmate. You’d love him. You’d absolutely love him. He’s hilarious and a fucking idiot and he’s got more money than he knows what to do with. He’s nice, too—probably the nicest kid I’ve ever met—and he has a fucking _assistant_.”

Stan looks successfully impressed.

“So I’m going to meet these blokes, yeah?”

“Of course,” Louis says happily, without hesitation. “You need to visit next term. They’d love you.”

“Even Harry?”

Louis pauses. Harry.

“I think so,” he says, unsure, and Stan laughs.

“I dunno, mate. You sound like you’ve got a bit of a head case on your hands.”

“No, no, no,” Louis rushes, “he’s not like that. He’s wonderful. Always. He’s just…got a lot to deal with. But he’s trying! And he’s different, Zayn even said. But he doesn’t even need to be different because he’s fine the way he is. He’s good. He’s sweet and stupid and intelligent and moody and fucking exhausting and ridiculous and charming and strong and there’s just so much inside of him. So, so much, Stan.”

By the time Louis is done with his speech (which he really hadn’t meant to happen), Stan is just looking at him with open, flaunted amusement.

“What?” Louis asks defensively, skin flushing.

“No special someone, you said?” he asks with eyebrows that claim to know too much.

“No!” Louis replies hotly, and his skin flushes more which is irritating and unbecoming and he just really, really wishes he could control the emotions of his skin more. Because Harry is absolutely just a friend. There’s never been any other option. It’s never been like that between them. Harry’s just a friend. A new friend.

“Anyways,” Louis says, still feeling the warmth of his neck radiating within the collar of his shirt, “let’s play Mario. I’m in the mood to be Italian.”

And the subject is dropped from there despite Stan’s impish grin and smirking eyes, and, slowly, Louis’ skin returns to its normal temperature.

**

It’s Louis’ birthday. Therefore, it’s also Christmas Eve.

And it’s a good day, actually.

He’s spent it with his family, his sisters sticking tiaras atop his head and coloring him pictures as presents. He accepts each one with the biggest of smiles, clutching them to his chest reverently and making them giggle.

Stan stops by, has tea with them all and has Louis open his present—a football jersey, a wheel of cheese, a bottle of beer, and a ball of duct tape—before slapping him on the back with an embrace.

“Happy birthday, mate. Make sure your rich friends spoil the fuck out of you,” he grins.

Which is funny actually, because Louis had purposely hidden his phone in his room, his desire to interact with the outside world slim. He can only imagine the texts he’s received from Niall—that is, if he even remembered—and he’s not very interested in reading Zayn and Liam’s tapped out words because, quite frankly, he misses them. He misses them and he wishes he could celebrate his birthday with them, with a grand party and a fountain of punch and a masquerade or some shit, but he can’t see them because his birthday is inconveniently placed and…well.

He just feels a bit pissy.

He loves his family, he does. He’s happy to spend his birthday like this. But there’s just something… missing.

“Did your father call you?” Louis’ mum asks stiffly from where she’s putting the finishing touches on his cake. Which is sweet. Louis hadn’t expected her to bake, and it pleases him, makes his smiles toward her a bit more genuine. When he hugs her, he means it.

“No. Why would he?”

She sighs, deep and frustrated. “You’d think one of these years he’d have the decency to call his own son.”

“Haven’t spoken to him in two years. Why stop tradition now?” Louis says with a twisted grin, and they leave it at that.

They have dinner—lasagna, Louis’ favorite—and then pour the presents upon him. His mum brings out all the cards he’s received from relatives, the little packages from far away, and she even brings her own, much to Louis’ surprise.

“You’ve bought me a present?” he asks, startled.

She smiles, ruffling his hair. “Now that you’re away, I figure you need a bit of your mum’s love.”

And…well. That sentence is a bit problematic in some regards, but Louis will take it. He smiles, standing up to embrace her, before settling back down in his chair and shoving cake and mince meat pies in his face as he rips away at paper and envelopes with sticky fingers, the girls continuously singing happy birthday.

“You’re too good to me,” he teases to Maggie, bopping her on the nose, and she giggles, crawling onto his lap.

“Happy birthdayyyyyy,” she sings, and squeezes his cheeks as he pretends to feel the strength from her tiny hands.

Overall, it’s nice. And, though he does wish he was with the lads, he supposes it’s for the better, being here in his kitchen with his family, the house decorated for Christmas and smelling warm and edible, piles of presents and well-wishes around him.

Because Louis is loved and it feels nice.  Really nice.

He makes his way to his room after the festivities are over, his stomach loaded with sweets and cocoa, the promise of sleep better than any other prospect in the world. He creaks the door open before making his way to the bed, sitting heavily upon it, the sweetness of frosting still clinging to his lips. Oh happy day.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Yeah?” he calls tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

The door gently opens, wide eyes and long, blonde hair visible.

“Charlotte,” he smiles. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She grins, rolling her eyes at him, before making her way in and sitting beside him on the bed.

“Got you something.”

“Did you? Why didn’t you give it to me after dinner?” he asks, tired and fuzzy, his smile permanent on his face.

She hands him a small, square package, her cheeks plumped into a pleased smile. She shrugs. “I dunno. Because.”

He chuckles a bit, unwrapping it expertly. His smile only widens when he sees what lies beneath. It’s a framed photo of Louis, his sisters, and his mum the day he left for uni. They’re clustered together, smiling and sunny, and in the corner of the frame is a tiny scrap of paper with the words, “Miss you Lou!!” written in Charlotte’s handwriting.

Fuck. That is really fucking sweet. And, no, Louis is not getting emotional.

“Why thank you, love,” he smiles, immediately hugging her and blinking away the shine of not-tears.

“Do you like it?” she ask, voice muffled by his shoulder.

He laughs softly. “Love it.” He feels her smile before she pulls away, her eyes quiet and peering at his face.

“Do you miss us, too?” she asks.

His heart pangs again—he really is a shit brother, isn’t he?—as he smiles, mussing up her hair.

“All the time, yeah,” he says softly. “I’ll call you more. Maybe even write a letter or two.”

“Send us presents??” she asks hopefully.

He laughs, nudging her with his elbow. “So many presents. It will actually become annoying how many presents I send.”

She beams, nodding, and standing up off the bed. “It’s a promise, then. Goodnight, Lou. Happy birthday.” She hugs him one last time, arms clutched around his neck, and he smiles wider than he has in weeks as he grips her close, her soft blond hair tickling his nose. “Love you,” she sings in his ear, and then she glides out of the room, waving and smiling before she closes the door.

Louis continues to smile. Maybe being home isn’t so bad.

It’s only when he’s crawling into bed that he remembers he has a phone at all. It’s connected to the charger, sitting on his nightstand, and as he lies there, burrowing his feet inside the blankets, he flicks through the lock screen, eyes gliding over the familiar names and chunks of text wishing him a happy birthday.

He’s got a couple from Zayn which makes him smile wide, pushing his cheeks into his eyes, and even more from Liam which makes him laugh softly. He’s got one from Niall, which merely says ‘ _Is it ur birthday?_ ’ which emits a burst of laughter from him (because _of course_ Niall would send that, the oblivious loon) and he’s just about to swipe a reply when an unfamiliar name catches his eye.

**Harry Styles**

He freezes.

… Did he—what—is that--?

He looks again.

**Harry Styles**

Yes, okay. Right. Okay.

Harry texted him. Okay. All right. Okay.

His eyes flit to the text.

_‘Happy birthday, Louis Tomlinson.’_

He stares.

He reads it again.

_‘Happy birthday, Louis Tomlinson.’_

Oh god.

Harry.

A text.

A text from Harry.

On his birthday.

On Louis’ birthday.

How did he know? Did he ask Zayn? Did he check his Facebook? Had Louis told him in the past and he’d happened to remember? He texted him. He texted Louis. He texted Louis happy birthday and—

What does he say back??

It’s one thing to text Harry when he knows he’s not going to get a response. It’s another thing entirely when he knows he’s going to actually read it and perhaps reply.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He weighs his options over the next few minutes, typing out rough drafts and then deleting them.

At long last he settles on a classic response:

‘ _Thank you, Curly. Happy Louis Day.’_

He waits, fully prepared for nothing, but still he waits and waits and waits, and just as his eyelids begin drooping and sleep has begun to ensnare his senses in its quiet clutch, his phone vibrates harshly, startling him out of his slipping unconsciousness. He brings it to his eyes immediately, his pulse picking up. He’s almost tempted not to read it, to save it for the morning so he has something to wake up to—be it good or bad. Which is dangerously close to being pathetic.

But in the end he gives in to temptation (doesn’t he always?) and unlocks the text, staring at Harry’s response.

It’s an emoji. Of an octopus.

… Ok, then.

So Louis sends him a rose before he falls asleep, his smiling cheeks pressed deep into his pillow that smells so sweetly of home.

**

It isn’t long before New Years rolls around the corner.

Louis ends up going to Stan’s party, a small, painfully fun bash that he holds in his charmingly shady apartment on the other side of town despite having been invited to Zayn’s ever-so-famous New Years Party Extravaganza. And he’s a little glum about it, yeah, (in no way could he rationalize the traveling costs or the abandonment of his childhood mates for a glamorous shit show at some elitist hotel) because he doesn’t get to see the lads, but he has fun regardless and drinks enough to forget to think about them all—namely Harry, who he hasn’t heard from since he’d gotten the octopus emoji, the fucker—and as the clock strikes the new year, he’s even managed to find himself a new year’s kiss.

It’s a boy with a hairsprayed quiff and a trendy shirt that reeks of sub-par cologne, his forgettable green eyes smiling into Louis’ as they chat throughout the night casually, exchanging drinks and pleasantries about their lives. The green only makes him think of Harry—but it’s a shameful comparison because Louis’ quite sure the color of Harry’s eyes is the only of its kind and the Powers At Be had fucked around a bit longer while making him, inventing new shades on the color spectrum, putting more energy towards him alone than they have the whole population.

Or maybe Louis’ had too much tequila.

In any case, Hairspray Boy follows Louis around (he can’t be blamed really—Louis looks _fantastic_ tonight) and takes full opportunity of their proximity as everybody cheers in the new year, the noisemakers exploding, and grabs him into a very un-momentous kiss.

“Cheers, mate. Happy new year,” Louis says half-assedly after he’s released, throwing the boy a weak thumbs up and avoiding his gaze as he slips by him and wanders off to find his mates. He feels the disappointment in the boy but he leaves regardless because he just can’t care, feeling very indifferent about the situation in general.

“Louis!” Stanley greets with drunken enthusiasm, and before he knows it, he’s swallowed whole by the masses, laughing and celebrating another year gone by.

He wonders what Zayn and Liam are doing—probably cuddling.

He wonders what Niall is doing—definitely partying. Maybe shagging some girl. Or girls.

He wonders what Harry is doing.

He slips out his phone, untangling himself from the crowds of people, feeling drunken and tired and somehow forlorn despite the good cheer and the good company and his freshly kissed lips. He finds a deserted corner of the house, filled only by abandoned cups and a few fallen beer bottles, and alights his phone, thoughts on Harry, and then—

 **Harry Styles** flashes across his screen.

Fuck.

He fucking texted Louis. Again.

On New Years. At midnight.

_Fuck._

Louis swipes the message, reading instantly, his heart sprouting holes and gushing over his organs like a fountain at Buckingham Palace. His mind is a steady thrum of blankness, unable to properly navigate through all the alcohol in his system and the vast amount of emotions that have just piled down upon him.

Harry texted him.

New Years.

Again.

He reads.

 ‘ _I knew a simple soldier boy_

_Who grinned at life in empty joy,_

_Slept soundly in the lonesome dark,_

_And whistled early with the lark._

_In winter trenches, cowed and glum,_

_With crumps and lice and lack of rum,_

_He put a bullet through his brain._

_No one spoke of him again._

_You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye_

_Who cheer when soldier lads march by,_

_Sneak home and pray you’ll never know_

_The hell where youth and laughter go._ ’

Louis stares.

….. The fuck?

That’s what Harry sent him? It’s New Years and it’s midnight and he’s texted Louis, for only the third time in his life, and he…sends him a poem about a solider committing suicide?

Louis’ heart thumps, painfully and irrationally, and suddenly all he can wonder is if this is some sort of game. If this is some sort of hidden message and he swallows down the thickness in his throat as he taps out the only reply he can manage in his current state.

_‘Curly, that’s got to b the single most depressing New Years greeting I’ve ever gotten.’_

He stands there, staring at his phone, making a drunken and steadfast promise not to move until he gets a response. He hears his name being called from the other room.

“Louis!”

“Just a minute!” he replies, eyes never leaving his screen, hands hot.

He waits.

Nothing.

Still waits.

And then it vibrates. He reads the text immediately.

_‘It’s art, Louis Tomlinson.’_

And then, just a pause later:

_‘Happy New Year’_

And relief floods Louis. Thank fuck—it’s just Harry being weird.

_‘Right back at ya, shady pants. Someone’s wearing a bow tie at this party and they’re acting like a twat. Thinking of u! x’_

Almost immediately there’s a reply.

_‘Funny, because I’m thinking of you as well. There’s a woman here who keeps looking at herself in every mirror and insisting she’s beautiful. Though she doesn’t pull of the self-adoration quite so well as you do.’_

_‘Well that's probably bc she’s not as beautiful.’_

To which he gets the response of a sunflower emoji. But he’ll take it.

He smirks fondly as he rereads the texts, feeling instantly warmer and reassured, before heading back into the party.

**

Louis is very, very drunk by the time he gets home.

Drunk enough to wish that he was coming home to Niall playing piano in his pants, with food all over their flat, and whiskey and beer peppering every surface.

Drunk enough to, _maybe_ , take Liam up on that threesome he had offered so long ago with himself and Zayn.

Drunk enough to call Harry.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Yes?” Harry’s voice calmly answers, and the sound is startling and pleasant, thrumming in Louis’ air passageways and arteries. His voice is even deeper over the phone.

He can’t help but chuckle at the greeting, rolling his eyes to the dark ceiling of his bedroom.

“Is that how you greet all your mates? Or is it just me?” he slurs teasingly.

“I treat everyone equally, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis rolls his eyes once more. It makes him dizzy. He burps and his mouth tastes like tequila.

“Sure. Anyway. Happy new year!” he cheers happily.

He can hear Harry’s smirk. "A bit too much to drink?”

“What? Nah. Was thirsty, that’s all.”

“Well, then you chose an appropriate day to be thirsty,” Harry says, and his voice is so, so far away, isn’t it? But Louis can still imagine his face, his hair, his eyes. The way his lips form the words.

Too much tequila.

“And how did you spend your evening, Curly?” he asks, silencing his thoughts.

He hears a deep sigh. “My father threw a party at our house.” The words are heavy.

“You didn’t go to Zayn’s?” Louis asks, taken aback. A strange sort of relief floods him at the thought that Harry wasn’t there either. That he didn’t…miss anything.

“No. I couldn’t.” He sighs. “It got a bit out of hand, though. Dad…really shouldn’t do things like that.”

Louis snorts. “To put it lightly,” he says, alcohol having ripped away his filter.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly before he quiets, and Louis begins to wonder if he’s made him sad, when suddenly he begins speaking again. “Anyway, he needed to go to bed. So I made everyone leave.”

Louis’ eyebrows rise. “You kicked everybody out? A bunch of batshit crazy popstars and socialites? _You_ were the one who had to ask them all to leave?” The words shock him as he imagines Harry—lone, little, tired Harry—ushering piles of rowdy, beautiful people out of the huge, dark doors of his mansion. He furrows his brow. “Weren’t you off your tit as well?”

“Course not. Wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I needed to care for my father. It was a bit of a…high risk situation. He needed to be watched.”

Louis nods, feeling a barren sort of melancholy settle inside of him. Harry. Poor Harry.

He misses Harry.

“Not such a happy new year, then,” he says glumly. Burps again. Or was that technically a hiccup?

“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say that,” Harry hums casually. “I made the place look incredible. It was almost too beautiful to look at. I was very close to demanding the guests walk around blindfolded.”

Louis laughs. Of course he would say that.

“Send me a picture?”

“If it’s not torn down in the morning.”

There’s a pause, and Louis sighs, his drunken head swimming and clinging to the sound of Harry’s breathing over the phone.

“You all right, then?” he asks quietly. “Good holiday?”

He can _feel_ Harry nod. “Yeah. Bit tired.”

“Me too. I’m utterly pissed,” he says bluntly, and Harry laughs abruptly. “I shouldn’t have drank so much.”

“You didn’t go to Zayn’s either?”

“Nah. Went to me best mate’s party. Was an incredible time.” He hiccups. For real that time. “I think.”

Harry laughs again, the sound smooth and velvety over the phone. Louis smiles.

“So you had a happy new year, then.”

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” Louis says enthusiastically. “Even got me New Year’s kiss!”

And the line goes silent.

Louis waits for a sound, a word, even a shuffle, but nothing comes, so he pull the phone away from his ear to check that Harry’s still on the line and, yep, he is. But the silence continues.

“Er, hello?” he asks.

“I should go,” Harry replies, almost immediately, his voice stiff. “I’m tired.”

No.

Louis’ stomach plummets, feels sour and twisted.

“But,” he protests, his insides doing _things_ , “I need you to brighten me mood!” He prays Harry won’t hang up.

“…Why? I thought you said you had a good time.”

“Well I did, yeah. The bits with me mates. But that kiss was terrible, Harry, just terrible. It really put a damper on the night. And I’m twenty percent sure his hairspray caused irreparable damage to the ozone layer as well as my sense of smell. He was, essentially, a chemical bath on legs.”

And Harry’s laugh returns. “Oh, is that what I smelled earlier this evening?” he comments offhandedly, and Louis can hear the smile in his words.

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” There’s another pause, one where they’re both smiling, and Louis plays with the fabric of his blankets. “Wished you were there, though,” he says, very, very softly.

And fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that. No more tequila. Never, not ever.

“You do?” Harry asks, and he sounds startled, surprised. Taken aback, if you will.

“Yeah. You would’ve made it fun, wouldn’t you? Woulda had a proper dress code and a bizarre theme and everybody would’ve fallen over themselves to kiss your ass. It would’ve been a sublime time. Moreso than it already was, of course.”

“Of course.” Harry’s grin is bursting from the words.

Louis feels warm. Maybe even drunker.

“I make everything better, you see,” Harry continues. “You would’ve died if you’d seen my centerpieces today.”

At that, Louis laughs, harder than he probably should.

“What?” Harry says crossly. “They were carefully constructed!”

“From the hands of a god, I’m sure,” Louis laughs, wiping away his tears.

“Yes. I suppose I am a god.” And Harry’s voice is smug and sort of adorable and Louis smiles even wider—which is maybe scientifically impossible, but it happens.

“You know, Curly,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep and the need for water. He’s gonna feel like utter shit tomorrow. “You’re the first person I’ve called this year.”

“You’re the first person I’ve talked to this year,” Harry replies softly, voice also weighed down with exhaustion. He pauses. “That is, unless you include the screaming I did at the guests when I made them leave the house.”

They both laugh.

“That’s not even funny, that’s tragic!” Louis laughs, wrapping an arm around his stomach to keep warm. Happy happy happy. Drunk drunk drunk.

“Such is my life,” Harry giggles, but there’s so much in that sentence, so much truth, that Louis sobers, feeling a stabbing sensation in the center of his body.

Harry yawns. Like a baby lion.

“I should let you go, Curly pants,” Louis smiles, but he doesn’t want to go, just knows he has to.

“Sleep,” Harry agrees, even though it’s not a proper sentence.

“Happy new year and all that.”

“And likewise, my chap.”

Another snort escapes Louis. “Very nice. Well.” He sighs, forcing himself to depart. “Goodnight, Harry Styles.” His lips are pressed against the phone, brushing them as he speaks. He imagines Harry’s are, too. Lips brushing against each others’ voices.

“Goodnight, Louis Tomlinson.”

They hang up, Louis’ lips drunk and bumbling and smiling sloppily, and just as he lies down and turns off the light, he receives a text.

**Harry Styles**

It’s an emoji of a shooting star and Louis doesn’t know what it means, but he falls asleep thinking that it’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is and I'm not v pleased with it but, well. Onward to the next chappa! 
> 
> The song that inspired most of this is Arcade Fire's brand new "Awful Sound (Oh Eurydice)" and it's a gorgeous song that gets even better the more you listen to it. I particularly like to listen to this song when I think about the bit where Harry and Louis are saying goodbye at Harry's door before break, with all the snow and stuff. I was inspired.
> 
> Tumlbr @ me, let us chat! (mizzwilde) For supreme, amazing inspiration for this story, go to my 'this is inspiring me tag' and feel the love. 
> 
> <3
> 
>  
> 
> PS. The poem Harry texted Louis is called "Suicide in the Trenches." Lookit it up, it's lovely. Sad and horrible, but lovely in its way. If it's a bit off, it's because I quoted it from memory and I'm a lazy brat so I haven't checked its full accuracy. :P


	27. XXVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis comes back to school.

As soon as Louis and his mum step through the door of his uni flat, Niall is suffocating him to death.

“TOMMO!” he bellows heartily, lithe arms squeezing every particle of oxygen out of Louis’ small bones. Well, not small. Compact. “How’ve you been, mate? I’ve missed you! We’ve all missed you! Zayn told me to fetch you as soon as you came—they’re all in his rooms!” He’s golden and smiling and his blue eyes look like January and a fresh term, his thick knit jumper pushed to his elbows and his tennis shoes whiter than the snow that’s already begun receding back into the earth.

“Easy there, killer,” Louis says, brushing his fringe away, but he’s smiling and the sight of Niall is, to be honest, sort of wonderful. Just seeing and smelling their flat in general brings a tidal wave of joy and relief, and though he’s going to miss the girls (he’s got Charlotte’s gift tucked safely in his shoulder bag) and Stan and the quirks of his hometown, Louis is quickly beginning to realize that home is no longer confined to a single location.

Even the piano looks comforting right now.

“Niall m’dear!” Louis’ mum exclaims, wrapping the bouncing boy in her embrace, and Niall laughs happily, hugging her like they’ve known each other for years.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it down,” Niall says sincerely, kissing her cheek. “Got a bit wrapped up in youthful pleasantries.”

Youthful pleasantries?

Couldn’t make it down?

Was he invited??

Louis raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, it’s fine, love,” she says, smoothing out the wrinkles of his jumper. “I’m just happy to see you.”

Louis successfully resists a snort. He’s trying to be more supportive of the whole ‘Niall is his mum’s new best friend’ situation. It seems to actually be helping her attitude about things, which is always welcome, so. He’s biting his lips until they bleed, basically.

“Likewise,” Niall says happily, and they chat a bit more as Louis unpacks—setting the photo of him and his family on his bedside table with care—and checking his phone every 4 minutes.

Because, see, Harry had texted him that he was coming back today. And, putting two and two together, it’s likely that he’s one of those people waiting in Zayn’s rooms. Which is good. Just the fact that Harry has even begun texting him _at all_ is good. And it’s not like it’s a lot or anything, and they haven’t spoken on the phone since New Years, but Harry texts him, he does, and that tells Louis that Harry’s thinking of him and that he cares. In some way he does.

Oftentimes, Louis will wake up to these texts—Harry always sends them late at night, creeping into morning—and sometimes it’s just one word (‘ _loblolly’_ or ‘ _scurryfunge_ ’ or ‘ _de profundis’_ and Louis has no fucking clue what any of those mean but that’s sort of the majestic beauty of it all so he, maybe, takes a screenshot of each one), and sometimes it’s just a tiny, insignificant, random sentence. Like saying, _‘I wish I could sail,’_ or ‘ _Bluebirds are the most beautiful bird in the world and they were made for the morning,_ ’ or ‘ _I will never match the beauty of my vanilla candles._ ’ And, on one such occasion, ‘ _I should like to be a pincushion_.’ Sometimes he’ll just send Louis quotes. ‘ _’I knew I should create a sensation,’ gasped the rocket. And then he went out.’_ Or ‘ _I believe in Willie Hughes.’_

No, Louis hasn’t memorized every text. Nope.

But that’s it. Those are all the texts he gets.

To an outsider, each message may appear to be a tiny drop of nothingness. But to Louis, in some strange, intangible, inexplicable way, they hold the secret of a universe in them, and each word is sweet on Louis’ tongue, and each word he cherishes.

It’s actually very pathetic.

But it is what it is and that’s why Louis needs to go to Zayn’s rooms, preferably now, because Harry is probably there and Louis would really like to see Harry.

So after Niall and his mum have shared enough laughs and drank enough tea (Niall stuffing 7 sugar cubes in his cup and _all_ the cream), Louis finally bustles out, clapping his hands with finality and smiling a little too brightly.

“All right kiddies,” he sing-songs, holding out his mum’s jacket for her, inviting her to slip her arms in. “Time’s a-wasting! We’ve got books to buy and schedules to print and stories to exchange! So, mum, thank you again for being an incredible travel hostess, it’s appreciated greatly, and I hope you have a safe trip back. Make sure to mind the girls 'n all that. Tell them I love ‘em and miss ‘em already.” He somewhatly forces her arms into the jacket, but she relents as she chuckles a bit, Niall’s eyebrows shooting up at the spectacle.

“In a bit of a rush there, Louis?” Niall asks with amusement, still perched on the kitchen stool.

“Rush? What? Never! No,” Louis insists breezily, flitting about the room and gathering her purse and keys. “Just trying to get a head start to the year!” he chirps. He stuffs the remaining belongings in her hand.

She’s got one eyebrow raised, but she’s smirking in response.

“All right, then,” she says. “I can take a hint. Bye, loves.” She presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead, then Niall’s.

Just as she’s walking out the door and Louis and Niall are waving, Louis calls out a:

“And text or call Niall if you ever need anything!”

Which makes Niall laugh and his mum smile and then she’s gone. And it’s…good.

“So, just curious,” Louis says as they’re walking back into their flat. “How often do you chat with my mum?”

Niall shrugs, immediately heading towards the piano. “A couple times a week?”

Wow.

“That’s a lot more than I talk to her.”

“I know.” But Niall’s grinning. The little shit.

Louis can only roll his eyes fondly.

“Of course you do. Well, whatever it is you’re doing, keep it up. She seems…better.” He pauses, considering. “Happier, even.”

“I’m good at dealing with sad folk,” is all Niall says before he begins hammering down on the piano keys, the sound jangling through their ornate flat and bouncing off the satin, tasseled pillows.

And, as Louis makes his way to the toilet to brush his teeth and (maybe) fix his hair, he can’t help but feel that Niall is absolutely correct. And that he’s extremely fucking thankful to have met him.

**

The minute that they step into Zayn’s rooms, Louis sees Harry, already sitting at the table with Zayn and Liam and drinking out of teacups.

He’s wearing a golden suit (which, what?) with a matching bow tie that actually _glints_ in the light. And such ridiculous garb would normally provoke Louis into making total and complete fun of him on the spot…but instead the sight of him wrapped in shimmering gold just sort of overwhelms the atmosphere, like a star bursting or a sun setting. The gold warms Harry’s skin—which is untouched, clear and bright, bruises nowhere in sight—and brightens his eyes which are morphing from smug composure to naturalness as they find, settle upon, and then dig into Louis in his dirty jean jacket and rolled up black jeans, scratched Converse covering his sockless feet.  

“I’m back,” Louis announces to the room, to Harry, and all faces turn towards him, mid-chatter. Niall stands close behind him, Louis’ shoulder occasionally bumping into his.

It’s then that the room suddenly feels quiet somehow, even as Liam immediately rises from his chair and greets them boisterously in his waistcoat and slacks, as Niall clomps ahead of Louis and take his seat where there’s already poured wine and a pile of truffles, and as Zayn lights a cigarette with one practiced hand, the flame igniting as if in slow motion.

Everything just feels _quiet_ as Louis looks at Harry and Harry looks at Louis, and the world around them continues to exist.

Louis smiles through the silence and the fog, walks right through the movement, the greetings, the laughter, walks toward the crystal wine glasses and ornate silverware sitting atop embroidered napkins, walks towards Harry who is watching him closely with a pink pressed smile and bright, glowing green eyes that are glazed in gold.

He takes the seat beside him, never taking his eyes off of Harry’s eyes, and they stare at each other as if tied together by twine. And it all just feels quiet and it _feels_ like gold, to be honest. Feels like the color Harry’s wearing, and Louis wonders how he does that. How he bends the atmosphere to the fibers of his clothes and the fibers of his soul and, fuck.

Are you a wizard, Harry?

“Hi,” he breathes, sliding his bum into the wooden chair, smile widening as his eyes become level with Harry’s.

“Greetings, Louis,” Harry smiles back, and his voice rumbles so quietly; it’s like the soft scrape of fabric in the morning.

They continue to stare, wordless, warm, and golden.

Louis is turning into a sap.

“Nice to see you, too,” a wry voice suddenly interrupts through the swirls of Louis’ brain, and he blinks, immediately snapping out of his reverie and looking over to find Zayn sucking on his cigarette, eyes narrowed in amusement and staring betwixt Louis and Harry in a fashion that implies he’s very aware of something. Though what he could be aware of is unknown to Louis—there’s nothing to be aware of.

No awareness. None. Aware- _less_ , if you will.

“Zayn, m’boy!” Louis says, clearing his throat and forcing the chipperness  to full capacity. Though it’s not much forced, as he is really is terribly happy to see him. He quite loves Zayn. “How was your Christmas, then? How did the party go?”

He can still feel Harry’s eyes on him.

“You missed a good time, mate,” he says languidly, picking up his glass of wine. He’s slouched in his chair, lazy and bored, his eyes calm as they observe the surroundings at hand. Or, more specifically, Louis and Harry. His eyes flick between them, focusing intently and cuttingly as if he can hear every thought whispered in their brains, read every text they’ve sent each other that still lingers in the radio-waves somewhere in the atmosphere…

It’s really fucking unnerving actually, and Louis fidgets under his gaze, flicking his hair and fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie.

“Did you have a good holiday, Louis?” Liam suddenly asks politely, but when Louis turns to look at him, he looks a bit put out, almost as if hurt. “Didn’t chat with you too much. You were busy, I take it?”

And there, that’s it—Liam’s pouting.

“Well, yeah, no, I was, I suppose,” Louis says, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the various forms of scrutiny surrounding him—Zayn studying him like a dissection project, Harry searing those fucking eyes into his flesh and leaving marks, and now Liam with his puppy eyes and pouty lip and thirst for Louis’ attention….

It’s just a lot. 

Thank god for Niall who is texting on his phone unflinchingly, now drinking wine directly from the bottle and kicking his feet up on the table. He couldn’t be less aware of Louis’ existence and, yep, Louis really loves him.

“I just tried to be with my sisters as much as possible, I guess,” Louis replies, his discomfort beginning to show. He makes a valiant effort to disguise it however, drinking wine smoothly and meeting Liam’s eyes with a firm grin on his face. “My bad if I was displaying bad manners, Payne. But you know the old saying—love the one you’re with?” He smirks, finishing the rest of the wine with a flourish and a wink, and that alone is enough to satisfy Liam, sending him into delighted laughter and easing his face back into pleasant expectance.

“We’ve missed you,” Liam smiles brightly, and beside him Zayn nods, though he’s still observing in that unnerving way. Which simply will not do. It’s the first day of term. Louis is not about to get stressed out. Especially by his mates.

So instead, he turns around to face Harry again as soon as Liam refocuses his attention on Zayn, clasping his hand and murmuring sweet questions, causing Zayn’s eyes to find a better home. Thank fuck.

Somehow, Harry seems to be expecting Louis, merely raising an eyebrow the second he spins to look at him, their shoulders bumping, their chairs clustered closely—probably too closely, how did that happen?—together. He’s smirking, but amiably, and gazing down at Louis in a manner that suggests unlimited patience and amusement, which….?

Or is that fondness? It’s either patience or amusement or fondness.

“Good holiday?” Louis asks him, his smile breathy.

Harry nods, that alien warmth pooling in his eyes and casting away any shadow or emptiness that Louis had once associated so fiercely with him.

“I’d say so. It treated me as well as I deserve.”

“So, wonderfully then?” Louis finds himself asking, just on this side of coy and this other side of shy, and Harry’s eyes imperceptibly widen as he stares at Louis.

“I don’t deserve ‘wonderful,’ Louis,” he says quietly, but his eyes leak a pleased sort of affection and Louis can tell that he’s touched, if a bit guarded.

“I think you do,” is what Louis says back.

And then it feels silent again.

“So tonight!” Niall suddenly booms, straightening in his chair and taking his feet off of the table. He’s grinning, phone in hand, and his cheeks are rosy red and blotchy, matching his lips which match the wine. “Anybody in the mood for a party tonight?”

“Where at?” Zayn immediately asks.

Niall grins wickedly.

“Here, of course.”

Zayn returns the exact same smile.

“I’m in.”

“Excellent!” Liam exclaims happily, “So am I!” He turns to Louis and Harry, wide eyed and beaming. “And you?”

Louis glances at Harry whose already nodding.

“A little party never killed nobody,” Harry smiles pleasantly before bringing a teacup to his lips and sipping daintily, pinky up.

Louis feels his insides grinning. Utter sap.

“Perfect,” Niall beams. “Because I’ve already invited everybody.”

Zayn’s laughter, intertwined with the curls of smoke, bounces around the room.

So tonight it is.

**

The party is…incredible.

Far too many people arrive of course and it gets very stuffy and hot very soon, but in the heart of it all are Zayn, Liam, Niall, Louis, and Harry, and they never stray too far from each other through the chaos, so it’s fun.

Louis is trepid at first—him and Harry at parties has proven to be a recipe for disaster in the past—and he’s even preparing himself to be ignored, as is custom, while Harry adorns his mask and shags the guest list, but…

It doesn’t happen.

Harry doesn’t put on his mask. He doesn’t change or charm emptily or pretend Louis isn’t there. He stays with Louis, laughing at his jokes and pouring him drinks and toasting the world, announcing to the room, “The whole world is our playground!” while he looks at _Louis_ and when they drink, neither dares to break eye contact.

It’s sort of intoxicating, really. A lot, really.

And as people press against Harry and try to subtly push Louis away (because who is Louis? Who’s his family? His name doesn’t sound familiar), Harry ignores them. He smiles charmingly and flicks their buttons and says something coy in his syrupy voice and then he leaves them behind to seek out _Louis_ , standing so, so close to him. He smiles down at him, his breath perfumes Louis’ face, the warmth of his body saturates Louis’ clothes, and he follows him and they pass cigarettes back and forth and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh as they drink, drink, drink.

At one point, Harry showers them all in champagne and rose petals—“Where the fuck did you get roses?!” Niall laughs drunkenly, tackling him in a bear-hug—and they all laugh because they’re young, wet and drunk and warm, petals sticking to their skin as snow swirls past their damp windowpanes.

“With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?” Harry shouts, red grin plastering his face, as the room stares at him reverently, guests laughing like hyenas and snapping Instagram pics; which would normally send Louis into fits of rage and annoyance because he hates the harpies, hates them, but now all he can do is watch Harry and the way he smiles as he presses sloppy kisses to Zayn and Liam and Niall.

“I adore you, Harry Styles!” Louis shouts because he can, because his veins are hot with alcohol, and Harry turns to him with a wide, sparkling grin and a dimple fit for a thumbprint and everything is gold.

Because if Harry seems to be sticking to Louis, following him around, Louis sticks to Harry harder.

And it just feels nice.

**

The night eventually dwindles down.

After Zayn decided to paint drunkenly—which ended up being horrifically messy, all the boys’ suits splattered with acrylics and oil pastels, cerulean smudged on their necks and cerise splattering their hair—the exhaustion began to settle in and, supporting each other up, Zayn and Liam drifted to bed, painted hands entwined.

And once the host goes to bed, that sort of puts a damper on things. So, steadily, the guests began to file out, one by one and cluster by cluster.

Niall himself leaves even, still abuzz with something and everything, arms wrapped around the shoulders of two jolly-faced boys.

“To the clubs, my lads?” he asks happily, not even showing a trace of slowing down.

“ONWARD!” they bellow, and they leave, Niall pressing smudgy kisses to Louis and Harry before the door slams, leaving silence in its wake.

And then it’s just Louis and Harry.

“Well that was…loud,” Louis comments, smiling hazily through the last of his drunken stupor. He’s sprawled on the couch clutching a bottle of champagne. Two petals still cling to his arms, one of them splashed with black paint.

He feels like art.

Or maybe he’s just drunk.

“Niall is the loudest that I know,” Harry murmurs through a smile, perched on the armrest of the couch. The tips of Louis’ Converse graze Harry’s thigh. He looks at Louis, face quiet. A bit carefully? “I should go. I need sleep and it’s always best for one to fall asleep when one’s happy.” He grins in that put-upon dazzling way, but the words catch on Louis’ skin.

“You’re happy?” he immediately asks, tilting his head curiously.

The dazzling smile fades, Harry’s lips evening out into something more calm and thoughtful. Something real. “I’ve no reason not to be.”

It makes the room warmer and swirls Louis’ already inebriated state.

But then it’s broken.

“I should go,” Harry says again, this time with more force, and he stands up, leaving the tips of Louis’ shoes cold and his smile bereft.

“Already?” he asks, sitting up, hair a complete mess, skin pink. He doesn’t want Harry to go.

“Yeah,” he replies, not looking at Louis.

 He makes for the door and is about to open it, hand hovering above the handle, and Louis is already crestfallen—even moreso because when he drinks he feels everything that much _more_ —when suddenly Harry pauses. He pauses, and Louis watches closely, his heart teetering on the edge of a precipice, and there’s about twenty pounding, silent seconds of indecision before, at last, Harry drops his hand.

Slowly, he turns around.

“I’m not really…” he begins, and his eyes are cast aside. He’s biting his lip. “I don’t feel like…” he tries again, sliding a hand over the back of his neck with unease.

“Not tired?” Louis supplies, all bright eyes and pounding heart.

Harry reveals a tiny smile, glancing up at Louis. “Not tired,” he confirms.

Something unravels in Louis’ stomach. He beams, patting the space beside him.

“Well, then. You might as well keep me company because I’m not tired either.”

Harry’s grin blinds the room, sending it into white light, and as he makes his way over and sits down carefully, Louis feels like singing. He tucks his feet under him, sitting cross-legged, and folds his hands neatly in his lap, suddenly wishing he was more sober and less sweaty, that his hair wasn’t tangled with alcohol and paint and hair product. Oh well.

“I’m never tired, you know,” he says conversationally as he observes Harry who has suddenly become something resembling shy. Which is new.

“Why?” Harry mumbles without looking up, studying his hands.

“Because I’m immortal,” Louis says simply, and the calm naturalness of it erupts a laugh from Harry.

“You’re not like anyone I know,” Harry comments after a few moments of chuckling, amused. He’s looking at Louis now, smile small.  “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ll wear that label proudly, my friend.”

Harry chuckles again.

There’s a few moments of silence, calm and quiet. It’s peaceful, it is, but Louis’ drunken mind is procuring questions—important questions—startlingly fast and he can’t think of any reasons not to ask them, not when Harry is choosing to be here, not when Harry is happy, not when they’re finally mates.

So. He asks.

“Does your father hurt you, Harry?”

And it drops like a boulder into the room, solid and loud and final. But Louis won’t take it back.

He watches as Harry’s smile wipes clean from his mouth, watches his gaze avert and his hands clench. His brow immediately furrows and, just like that, Harry is distant.

Louis sits up a bit straighter, palms sweaty. “I know that’s…I know. I probably shouldn’t have asked it like that. I know. I’m sorry. But it’s worrying, yeah? You don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to acknowledge the question at all, but, like… I have to ask. I have to. I’m sorry,” he bumbles, slurring a bit, and he really, really wishes he were more sober.

At that, Harry eases some, his hands unclenching, and he shuts his eyes tightly as a sigh escapes him, wracking his body. Louis can’t stop watching him.

“It’s okay, Louis,” Harry says quietly, and just those words alone wash Louis in relief and a sweet buzz. “I…understand. I _get_ it. But it’s not like that.” He opens his eyes and looks to Louis. The shadows are back. “He’s not _right_. He’s not, um, all there, you know? He doesn’t, like…come after me or anything. He just…” He pauses, searching for words, swallowing, looks away. “Sometimes he doesn’t know who I am. He gets scared. He’s… Louis, he’s not right.”

“But what’s wrong with him?” Louis presses, turning more fully to Harry. It feels a little less fragile now, this subject. A little.

“He’s got serious illnesses. Mentally,” Harry mumbles, a little wryly. “Addictions didn’t help.” He swallows. “Don’t help.”

Louis’ stomach thuds. “Yeah?” he asks gently. “He’s…doing that stuff again?”

Harry nods.

Louis feels so, so sad.

“But what can you expect?” Harry continues, voice sour. “He was in a world famous rock group. It’s the cliché, you know? Heroin addict. Alcoholic. Problem is, nobody expected him to be…” He trails off. “It sort of kicked some of his afflictions into gear. Sped them up. Made them worse.”

Louis nods.

Harry’s voice sounds so brittle. So uncomfortable.

“It’s difficult, yeah, but, like…he’s my father. Even if he…” He swallows again. “Doesn’t know it sometimes. Doesn’t care to be. He’s not entirely gone, or anything. Um. He’s brilliant with music, still, but. Heroin. You know.”

No. Louis doesn’t know.

He feels sick.

Harry’s face twists as he talks. “He didn’t fucking have to pass it on to his daughter, though. Gemma was too young. He gave it to her, you know. That’s how she started. Father made her a fucking addict because he didn’t want to do it alone.” Harry’s hands clench again. “And now look where she is. She doesn’t even talk to us.” His voice is shivering, just barely. “Won’t talk to _me_.”

“Harry,” Louis begins, feeling his emotions positively drenching him. Like wet cloth on weak limbs.

“I have to take care of him on my own because she just left,” Harry grits between teeth, and now the sparkles of tears have formed in the corners of his eyes. “On my _own_ , Louis.”

Louis’ entire heart cracks. “You shouldn’t have to,” he says, scooting closer and just wishing he could touch, soothe. “You can’t. It’s straining on you. It’s _dangerous_. Just put him in a hospital—“

“He gets worse in hospital, Louis. He hates it. I can’t do that to him, I won’t,” Harry says firmly, voice thick and angry as he looks at Louis again, and Louis unravels.

“Hire somebody. A nurse, yeah? They’ll be able to take care of him—for fuck’s sake, they’re trained, Harry!” Louis emphasizes as Harry begins shaking his head.

“I’m his son. It’s my responsibility. I’m all he has.”

“Fuck’s sake, Harry! This isn’t good for you!”

“How can you say that?” Harry snaps, whipping around to look at him fully. He knee knocks harshly into Louis’. “It wouldn’t be good for me to just abandon him!”

“Not abandon, you bloody cunt, just live somewhere else. You can fucking visit him, you can spend all your livelong day with the man, but for fuck’s sake, Harry, you honestly cannot argue that living with him isn’t dangerous or difficult. That’s too much to expect for an eighteen year old. Don’t be a hero.”

Harry shakes his head once before sitting back, folding his arms. “I’m not discussing this.”

“Harry,” Louis sighs, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s gotten _worse_.”

“It’s gotten better,” Harry snaps. “This past month of me being home was fine. Good, even. The song—he likes the song. That helps.”

“I should hope so, he wrote it,” Louis says with a roll of the eyes.

Harry doesn’t say anything.

“Look, I don’t want to fight. I don’t. I’m drunk still—pretty pissed, to be honest—and tonight was fun and I missed you Harry, I _missed_ you. I don’t want to fight.” Harry’s face softens as Louis continues, inclining his head in Louis’ direction infinitesimally. “But could you please, please just begin considering some other options? Ones where you can keep him in your life but, just, take some healthy steps back? It could help him, you know. Sometimes people need a bit of distance.” He keeps his hand on Harry’s arm. The fabric of his gold jacket is warm, a little damp from the night’s events. It’s smooth as a sigh.

Harry quiets, seeming to consider Louis’ words. Albeit begrudgingly.

“Yeah, all right,” he says, a little crossly, but a little gently. He glances over at Louis through a half-attempted pout. “Though I’m still not sure why you care.”

Louis grins, feeling some of the tension ease as he removes his hand. It feels cold and heavy.  

“You’re stuck with me, Curly. Better get used to it.”

Harry averts his face, but Louis can still see the smile.

There’s a pause

“I’m not—“ Harry begins, then stops. His feet shuffle and his arms uncross. “I’m not used to having, like, proper mates. I’ve only ever had Zayn as a real mate, he’s my best mate, even, but, um. Even then I fucked it up a bit. And, like, I’m just…not good at it, I don’t think. I’m not really sure what to do? But, like…thank you. Just, for being…there? I, just, um, I’m really appreciative of it. And I really…like being around you. And I’m glad we’re mates. And.” He sends a smirk Louis’ way. “I’m sorry for being such a twat before.”

It’s very possible that Louis might combust from the sheer amount of emotion that is welling up inside of him. Every emotion known to man is erupting like a volcano from every crevice in his body and he’s just…

Harry’s apologizing.

Harry’s telling Louis that he cares.

Harry needed a friend and here’s Louis and Harry is telling Louis he’s happy he’s his friend and…

Is this real life?

“I’m going to throw up,” Louis says, a little dazed, and Harry’s eyebrows shoot up as he immediately moves away.

“Are you actually?”

“No, probably not,” Louis continues, still dazed. “I’m just… Drunk.” He replays Harry’s words over and over and over. “And, just for the record, you really were an incredible twat to me before.” He smiles, beginning to gain a sense of reality again. “Remember the cheese danish?”

Harry grimaces but he chuckles, covering his face with his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says, but he’s actually sort of laughing, so Louis swats at him, but laughs too.

God, he’s feeling so, so much right now. Is this real fucking life?? Is it?

“I mean, seriously! That was so horrible!”

“Well, you were suddenly just acting like everybody else,” Harry defends. “I liked the way you were before. I liked how you…I don’t know. Um. Challenged me, I guess?” He looks down at his feet. He’s always looking down. Louis always wants him to look up. So the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars can see him and realize why they just don’t compare.

Very, very drunk.

“I thought you hated me,” Louis says, grin hurting his face.

“I did a bit.” Harry smiles. “Still do.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“But, like. You’re a good person, Louis. And, um, you’re, like, strong. And…I admire that.” His words struggle to surface as he plays with his sleeve, his curls falling into his face, and Louis sort of wants to tease him about his awkwardness, how his usually polished and showy speech has been dumbed down to ‘like’s and ‘um’s and spaces in between his words but….

All he can do is marvel.

“You are too, you know. A good person. And strong. Stronger than I could ever imagine to be.”

Harry’s face smooths out into such a gentle sweetness that Louis wants to actually nuzzle it. Which. Is probably not great.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, before a yawn overcomes him, large and loud.

“Time to go?” Louis offers as he watches, fingertips tingling from everything, just _everything_.

“Time to go,” Harry nods, rubbing at his eyes.

And as they say goodbye, smiling, with Harry promising to text Louis the next day, it doesn’t feel like they’re walking in opposite directions as they trudge towards their rooms in the snowy cold.

Rather, Louis feels positive that they’re walking together, and it melts the snow around his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. There are two songs for this chappa.  
> 1\. Change My Mind by One Direction. I KNOW, RIGHT?? See, thing is, that song inspired this whole chapter way back when and I've finally managed to write it out! yayyy!  
> 2\. Supersymmetry by Arcade Fire. There's a part after the singing, near the end of the song, where it's just pretty music, and that's what I kept playing when I wrote the scene where Louis first sees Harry again. So if you listen to it, hopefully you'll get a sense of what I feel. Ya know? :) 
> 
> Thank you again darlings, I'm obsessed with you all! I will respond to all comments and things when I come home from work! 
> 
> For chatting matters or whathave you, come visit me on the tumblrrrr: mizzwilde
> 
> *kisses you all*


	28. XXVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis is overwhelmed.

The term begins in a bit of a flourish for the lads.

Once again, Zayn is the talk of the school after it’s announced he’s first in his class, closely followed by Liam. “Brains, beauty, and money? That’s what dreams are made of!” Louis heard one girl say the other day. It was followed by a stream of giggled assents and a brief wave of annoyance-induced nausea within him.

Because really? Wow.  

Shortly after it was printed in the school newsletter—designed by Liam himself which he proudly declares every single opportunity he can—Louis had even had the disturbingly awkward shock of coming face to face with the Chancellor himself after Zayn had texted Louis to meet him near the chapel for lunch. There, amongst dead ivy and muted ancient stone standing tall in wintry white skies, was a severe-faced, tall, intimidating man with peppery charcoal hair and smooth cinnamon skin whose spirit animal was probably a piranha or a vampire.

And so, sending forth ‘Is this a fucking joke, why are you doing this to me?’ eyes to Zayn—who merely smiled peaceably back, muttering low sentences with his father—Louis walked up to the pair.

“Louis Tomlinson?” Khan Malik had asked, satiny and powerful and assessing. And fuck, this was intimidating because just one wrong move and this man could have Louis expelled. Possibly banned from the continent. He knows no limits of the rich.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis affirmed, shaking the man’s hand and feeling his bones compressed into diamonds by the sheer strength in the grip.

“I’ve heard excellent things about you from my son.” He released Louis’ hand, stared at him with sharp black eyes. “Are you in any of the extracurriculars here? The paper? The council? I don’t recall hearing your name.”

Well, shit. Awkward.

“Er, no,” Louis said, sliding his hands in his pockets and tucking his chin further into his patterned scarf. “I’m a bit of an observer, me.” Lie. “But I was thinking of checking out the drama club next year.” He shrugged. “Opportunities await, 'n all that.”

Khan Malik nodded, staring at him with close, unblinking eyes. “Indeed. Well, I urge you to participate. We are proud to display our brightest students—it reflects on us as a whole. There’s a reason we have our reputation, Mr. Tomlinson.”

And that was definitely a compliment and Zayn was definitely beaming proudly beside him and so Louis squeaked out a pleased, “Of course, sir, thank you,” before Zayn whisked him away for pasta and wine.

And since then, it’s been ‘Zayn Malik,’ ‘Zayn Malilk,’ ‘Zayn Malik.’

Of course, it doesn’t help that his mother’s just signed on to star in _yet another_ “Lord of the Rings” film (where do they keep coming from??) bringing further attention to all that is Zayn Malik and his impressive lineage. Hoards of hygienically sound trust funders thirsty for ‘fame’ cluster around him at parties because of it, spewing forth jovial invitations to their spring homes and their banquets and their ‘this’s and their ‘that’s. They shout greetings to him as he passes in the courtyard or in the halls, they snapchat his photo whenever he’s not looking, they’ll stare at him wide-eyed, caught between reverence and judgment and…

And, to be quite frank, Louis doesn’t give a fuck about any of it. And neither does Zayn.

Because his near celebrity status is something felt by the outside only—not by those near to him—and Zayn barely bats an eye at the influxes of attention and uninvited praise. He smirks at pleasantries and breathes smoke through introductions and slithers around the masses of designer clothes silently because it’s _Zayn_. Louis watches him, watches as he strides through the hallways undeterred as the whispered rumors and accolades follow his every move.

It’s borderline frustrating, but. At least Zayn’s got Liam at his side through it all. Liam, who has started this term off with flying colors, playing the happy husband to Zayn. Like a guardian angel he deters unwanted attention away from him seamlessly, is always there when the people are too much, is always making charming conversation with those whom Zayn knows nothing about. When girls or boys alike become a bit too hands-on or a bit too _there_ , Liam will whisk up, out of nowhere, brandishing his photogenic smile and crisp linen shirt, his hand outstretched and waiting politely to be shook.

“Liam Payne,” he’ll say earnestly, as if he cares for the person at all, planting a firm arm around Zayn’s waist. “Williams, right? Don’t I know your father?”

And the conversation will steer in a completely different direction as Zayn admires him through half-lidded eyes and a fond smirk, Liam never removing his arm, never removing himself from his side, and always filling the awkward pauses with a laugh or a polite inquiry.

It’s very sweet, really.

And Louis admires that simple way that Liam just looks after Zayn in these times, how he’s always present and making everything look so effortless and fun with his neat sentences and polished smile.

Liam himself is also having a successful beginning of term because, of course, he’s an absolute _star_ student at the school. He’s in just about every club and organization and extracurricular known to man—Khan must adore him, really—and he walks around as if untouched, always clean and always fresh looking, striding around in his football jersey straight from the practice field or in his waistcoat if he’s returning from the Student Union or his robes if he’s just had dinner with professors. His stress levels are manageable enough, as it is only the beginning of term, but there are times when Louis thinks, perhaps, Liam does live life a bit…intensely. And maybe it’s just because Louis hadn’t known Liam at the beginning of last term—not really—so maybe it’s just an age-old tradition of his to start the year with a bang but… Liam lives _hard_ sometimes.

Namely when they’re out.

When they’re disguised in the neon lights of clubs and lost in swarms of sweaty bodies, sometimes Louis worries that Liam will lose himself when he drops his polite and professional exterior and dons something much more chaotic and ecstatic.

To put it bluntly, he does too many drugs and doesn’t sleep enough and never, ever says no.

Louis thinks he can see his own concern reflected in the corners of Zayn’s eyes—Zayn who always carries Liam back home as the sun begins blinking from beneath the horizon—but it’s never spoken of or discussed, never addressed, and so Louis never lets his thoughts linger on it. Occasionally he’ll hear Niall’s voice in his head, his words spoken so long ago, about how Liam is a ‘wild animal’ and it stirs something inside of him, some instinctual sense of dread, but… But it’s no big deal, really. Because it’s probably under control.

So essentially, everything’s golden and everybody, especially Liam, is buzzed about April’s big rowing match against the rival university. Niall’s decided to join the team again—because apparently you can do anything when you’ve got money—and he and Liam practice diligently, coming home sweaty and sharing inside jokes about the rowing team while Zayn and Louis exchange eyerolls and throw grapes at them as they lounge at the table, slouched in their chairs with matching smirks.

Well. _Liam_ practices diligently.

Niall…

Niall sort of floats around, skirting by on his new status as ‘upcoming name in the music industry.’ He spends most of his time outside of rowing practice partying relentlessly, bringing back girl, or rather, _girls_ to the flat, sometimes only stopping by to change his clothes and re-spritz himself with a bit of cologne before hopping back out the door, calling out “I love you!”s and farewells to Louis. He boasts about the offers he’s gotten and the big names that he’s got in the palm of his hand, and Niall doesn’t care about this stuff or these people, not really, but he likes the opportunities and he likes the game and he’s absolutely winning at it, Louis is certain.

In fact, Louis really doesn’t know why he chooses to stay in school when, clearly, he would have an incredible career for himself if he just…left.

He mentions it late one night when they’re both in their boxers, sitting at the piano side by side, eating cheese sandwiches and swigging scotch from the bottle. They’re plonking away at the keys, a random reality show on in the background on low volume, and Louis looks up at the golden boy with his bright eyes and blushed cheeks and thinks that he can do whatever he wants in the world.

“Why do you stay at school? I mean, when you’ve got all these job offers lined up for you?” Louis asks, nibbling on some crust.

Niall rips his gaze away from the TV screen, slides it over to Louis.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, _why do you stay?_ ” Louis repeats with a roll of the eyes. “Like, why aren’t you out there making money and getting a career? The only reason we’re here at school is to do just that—and you’ve already got it, mate, haven’t you? The world’s at your feet. Why not take it?”

Niall smiles, beams actually, and takes another bite of his sandwich. “I like it here. I like my mates.” He looks pointedly at Louis, grinning through a massive bite, before continuing, words muffled by an inhumane amount of sandwich stuffed uncomfortably into his mouth. Which is gross, but Louis will allow it this once. “It’s home, isn’t it. Here.” He gestures around them.

There’s something about the sentence and the way that Niall says it that means something. There’s something between the words that, somehow, just sort of solidifies everything. A sort of quiet, whispering undertone that reveals that he and Louis are probably going to be mates for life, that this is one of those friendships that won’t break, is the special kind you hear your parents and grandparents talking about (“You meet your best friends at university—that’s where I met so-and-so and we’ve been friends for thirty years!”), and something about that, something about this unexpected kinship, makes Louis feel incredibly, incredibly touched. Much to his chagrin. 

Still, he smiles back, crumbs sticking to his lips, and gives a gentle shove to Niall’s shoulder. “Don’t be sappy,” he smiles.

“Don’t be afraid of your feelings, Tommo,” Niall jokes, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Give in to them.”

Louis chuckles lowly, but lets himself be tugged into Niall’s side, smelling like liquor and muted cologne.

“And of course, there’s also the fact that I like to play a little hard to get," Niall continues."Can’t just snag up the first job offer I get, now can I? Got to have them fight over me a bit. Raise the stakes. By the time I’m done with Uni, I’ll be a force to be reckoned with, I can tell you that. Especially if I start doing my homework.”

And Louis laughs.

So it’s good.

Then…there’s Harry.

Harry Styles.

Harold Edward Styles.

The boy that’s stuck to Louis’ insides, has painted himself in the walls of his brain, has jammed his spirit into his pores, and filled the spaces of his phone.

Since their return to school (and that fateful night after the party where Louis had word vomit and somehow didn’t scare Harry away for eternity) they’ve bonded in some unspoken sense, Louis just always _there_ and Harry always seeming not to mind. They’re together almost always—usually along with the other lads, to be fair—but still, Harry has just become so regular, so present in Louis’ life. So common.

But not common, because everything about Harry means something and is delightful and unique and anything but _common_.

The lads still have their luncheons and their outings and their lazy nights and their library study sessions and their parties. They fall asleep on Zayn’s floor when they stumble home in the wee hours of morning, play video games at Liam’s when they should be studying, and attend premieres and concerts and laugh and drink and eat too much, throwing lazy insults at each other and piling on top of one another for drunken naps, Armani mixing with Chanel, Gucci flecked with vomit and champagne, dusted in chip grease after a long night out. They do it all, all of the boys—and Niall always makes a point to put them first despite his chaotic social life—and it’s always fun and always glorious as they live their nights aglow.

But sometimes, afterwards, when Liam and Zayn drift to bed and Niall bounces back out the door to live the night, it’s Louis and Harry.

It’s Louis and Harry drifting to sleep on Zayn’s couch as they swig the dregs of their drinks and clink crystal during toasts they make in their slurred exhaustion, the candles burning down and their voices lowering.

It’s Louis and Harry sitting in silence when Harry’s had a bad day and the boys were just too much—and Louis could sense it the whole time as he watched the stiff line of his shoulders, the quiet distance in his eyes, could sense that it was all just _too much_ —and they sit together in peace, Harry staring out the window and Louis breathing beside him.

It’s Louis and Harry laughing into their teacups when Liam’s newspaper has a deadline and he’s running around like a headless chicken, with Zayn at his side, purring calming words.

It’s Louis and Harry shaking their heads fondly when Niall’s reading the latest review of “Certain Things” on his iPhone, giving special emphasis to the bits where they mention “solid drums” or “energetic beats” or any such compliments that he can attribute to himself.

It’s Louis and Harry being the last ones to answer whenever the lads propose to go out for the night _again_ , looking at each other in a sort of wistful ‘but we’d rather just stay in and be cozy’ manner that Zayn is always, always watching, a gentle smirk playing upon his lips.

It’s Louis and Harry when Louis goes to Harry’s rooms to study every day after his courses, to sometimes do actual work and to sometimes not, instead opting for little ‘getting-to-know-all-about-you’s that Louis likes to slip in when Harry’s not paying attention. He’ll offhandedly sneak in a “Where were you born?” or “What are your favorite things?” or “Why do you have so many cat figures?” The typical things.

Sometimes Harry catches on, stops himself from answering if it’s too personal, focusing a squinted look at Louis as if inspecting him with caution.

“Why are you asking me this?” he’ll say, brow dark and creased, lowering his violin.

Louis will beam, tilting his head happily. “I’m gonna ask you everything, Curly. Every question that I can think of.”

“But why?”

“Because I want to know everything,” he’ll say simply, and Harry will turn away quickly, going back to his music, perched on the edge of a beautiful wooden chair as Louis lazes in plush velvet and pours himself another glass of champagne, watching Harry over the rim.

Because another thing Louis’ learned about Harry is that he’s fucking brilliant—especially musically. And he’s passionate about it. He’s constantly creating, constantly practicing, filling the silence of the room with the most beautiful sounds and Louis always watches him, mesmerized by what’s being made right in front of him, lost in the atmosphere that Harry creates so seamlessly. But when Louis asks him about it, tries to touch foot on some ground—“You quite love music, don’t you?”—he’s met with a solid wall with no give.

“Not really, no,” Harry will say before ceasing immediately. Because he would rather empty his veins than reveal the seriousness he holds in regards to it, and would still rather die poor than admit the inspiration he seeks from it.

Louis is beginning to discover that Harry Styles is a vase, filled to the brim with the most beautiful treasures, but demands to be empty, wishes to be barren. No matter how much the world wants to be part of him, wants to fill the hollowed out corners.  He’s _wants_ to feel nothing, _wants_ to have control over his sensations, _wants_ to be unaffected—and so he grips onto his vapidity for dear life.

It distresses Louis.

He’ll watch as Harry’s eyes close sometimes, watch his body turn away from Louis after he’s mumbled a question about his father or said something that hit too close to home. If Harry’s revealed too much.

“I’m sick of discussing the world, Louis. I’m going to forget the world.” A pause. “You’re welcome to forget it with me, if you like.”

Louis smiles, feels the sentence, watching his shaded figure as it stares out the window, the curtains brushing against his long legs.

“You know,” he says, eyes following Harry’s hand as it presses against the glass, the surface fogging from the heat of his fingers. “I like to act disillusioned and like I hate the world—and maybe part of me really does—but the truth is, I’m sort of in love with it as well.”

Harry’s breath fogs the glass. “So you wouldn’t like to join me, then.” His voice is quiet.

Louis stands.

“On the contrary, my friend,” he says, walking up to stand beside him, placing his hand beside Harry’s and watching the steam from their bodies mingle, morphing on the glass, “I should like _you_ to join _me_.”

And Harry doesn’t say anything, but moves his hand closer to Louis’.

It’s incredible, really, the progress they’ve made. It’s incredible what they have. It’s incredible because Harry is incredible and suddenly, somehow, everything is just… _simple._ And Louis isn’t even sure _why_ but it is, it’s simple.

“Simple, eh?” Niall says as they share a fresh plate of croissants (courtesy of Rory) at the table, morning light spilling through the windows and softening the sharp edges of the lavish furniture, lighting up the chandeliers and sending the crystals into rainbow shadows that dance along the walls. He’s got a guitar on his lap, a sleek acoustic the color of fresh embers. Bits of croissant fall from his pink lips, settling upon the strings in flaky clumps.

“It’s true, Ireland. I can’t even explain what happened,” Louis says, finishing his tea. His cup feels warm from the sun, spreading into his skin and traveling through his body.

His phone vibrates beside him—Harry. He’s sent an emoji of a banana and a violin. Louis schools himself not to respond immediately, smiling instantly as his heart patters out of rhythm while Niall watches with a buttery smirk.

“Right,” Niall grins as he gobbles up the last of his breakfast, lifting the guitar up properly and settling his fingers against the frets. “Well, I bet I can. Finally fucked him, didn’t you?” he asks unabashedly.

Louis nearly chokes to death.

“Absolutely not, Niall!” he splutters and, well, Louis never splutters. But his skin feels a bit flushed and there are flutterings against his organs and. He’s spluttering.

With a warm laugh that mingles with the swirling sunlight, Niall begins playing guitar.

 _‘Oh how I love a bit of classical fruit in the morning’_ Louis texts back, before almost immediately receiving every fruit emoji in the damn book and, no, he really can’t explain it.

**

It’s four in the afternoon, the sun is out, the weather is cold but very bearable, and Louis is walking through Harry’s door, straight from his last lecture, dumping his bag in ‘Louis’ Bag’s Chair’ (“That’s a priceless antique, you know,” Harry will say icily whenever Louis calls it such; Louis will just smile and flick his hair and say, “I wouldn’t expect anything less for my bag” which makes Harry glare and laugh at the same time) and toeing off his shoes, beaming as Harry looks up from his desk where he’s writing something in his journal—and that alone sends a warmth dripping down Louis’ spine, the thought that his quote is still in there, secret and hidden and unspoken—with his quill and ink.

“What took you so long?” Harry asks, brow furrowed, mouth set in a pout, the sun setting fire to his hair.

Flickers of that fire alight within Louis’ skin cells. Because Harry’s pouting because Louis is late and…and Louis’ skin cells are on fire.

“Spoke to the professor after class,” he smiles, slipping off his jacket. “Wanted him to look over my paper.” He smirks, sliding off his beanie and smoothing his hair. “Think he’s got a crush on me though—he took _forever_ and he barely helped at all _._ Think he just wanted me to sit next to him, to be quite honest.”

Harry’s brow furrows all the more. “You should’ve asked me,” he says, voice childlike and so very _pouty_. It’s ridiculous, or at least it should be. But for some reason it just makes Louis warm.  Harry returns his attention to the paper before him, dipping his quill in the ink carefully. “I’m brilliant, you know.”

At that, Louis walks up to him, pinches his nose as the sunbeams soak into his skin. “You’re cheeky,” he says, looking down at him _not_ fondly. Nope.

The touch immediately melts any pout away from Harry, leaving him to smile sunnily up at Louis, face bright and open like a children’s book.

“Have you a lot to study tonight?” he asks, setting his quill down and just smiling from his chair, sunlight shimmering on the contours of his quirked lips.

“Nothing to study, actually,” Louis says. “So.” He grazes his fingers along the top of the desk, skims his eyes over the sheets of paper before Harry. “I was figuring we could ride bikes. I terribly miss bikes.”

Harry’s smile quirks into a smirk before he rises from the desk with a sigh. “I only ride antique bikes, I’m afraid.”

Louis narrows his eyes, unimpressed. “Of course you do,” he remarks flatly.

Harry shoots him a glare. “ _Luckily_ ,” he says icily, before his smile returns, undeterred, “I have some. Shall I have Burns drop them off?”

“Oh, indeed-lio,” Louis says in his poshest voice, and Harry throws him another glare as he saunters towards his bedroom, looking narrow and endlessly long in his tight black trousers and blackest black button-up shirt, pushed to the elbows and revealing his scribbled tattoos. His hair is dark and clustered high and his skin is translucently white and he’s…beautiful. It’s just a fact. Harry is beautiful. Louis doesn’t think about it, Louis doesn’t care about it but, yeah, Harry Styles is beautiful.

Obviously.

“I want to play you something,” Harry says conversationally, words monotonous, creeping into the air at their slowest pace. “I’ve written some songs. Tell me how good they are.”

“Who says they’ll be good?” Louis teases, following him.

“They’re always good,” Harry smirks, but it falls as he sits on the piano bench, Louis sitting beside him without hesitation, intent as he props his chin on his hand, blinking expectantly. Harry glances down at the keys before bringing his gaze back up, his features trepid, his hands still. “But tell me, yeah? Be honest?”

Louis chews on the inside of his cheek, his chest prickling at Harry’s wide, hesitant eyes and—

“I’m always honest,” Louis promises, hoping he sounds flippant but knowing he sounds pathetically gentle and it sends a wave through him, through the room, even. Through the universe? Maybe he’s being dramatic.

But he can be dramatic if he damn well pleases.

Harry watches him, stares at him, and then smiles softly.

“You’re a good friend,” he smiles quietly, and it warms Louis still more—even though Harry has a habit of saying little things like this lately, when the sunlight catches him just right—and makes him press just that bit closer to him.

“I am,” Louis agrees with a sigh and angelic smile. “And I guess you are, too. You sentimental sap.”

Harry beams and then brings his hands down upon the piano keys.

The song’s gorgeous—they always are—and Harry plays Louis every song he’s written, and even the unwritten ones, and Louis applauds and smiles through them all, very much swept away in a wave of sound. He sings along and makes up ridiculous, awful lyrics “Harry ate a banana that he found in his cabana,” etc., and Harry tries not to laugh or roll his eyes as he concentrates, but he always does, and he never gets mad at Louis.

“You’re ridiculous,” he always says, and he laughs as he continues to play, elbow brushing Louis’ side, smile brushing Louis’ eyes.

**

Before too long, they ditch the piano and Burns brings the antique bikes.

They’re tiny and ornate and look like they’re about to crumble apart—“And, pray tell Curly, just _how_ is my ass supposed to fit on this seat?” “The same way it manages to fit into this room—suspend your disbelief, Louis Tomlinson.”—but they clamber on them anyway and they’re not nearly as uncomfortable as they look. And after shooting a text to Niall saying that he won’t be home till later and not to wait for him for dinner, Louis rides along with Harry into the night, the tires of the bikes slick against the wet pavement in the cold, frigid air.

They laugh as they race through the empty streets, the sound echoing and bouncing off of the timeless, creaky buildings and cold, frosty glass of the darkened shop windows, and soon their cheeks are burning red and their eyes are glass and a cold sweat has formed on Louis’ body, dripping down the back of his neck and giving him goosebumps. Their breath fogs before them as quickly as it fades and it pours from them in waterfalls as they laugh and taunt and sing their way through the night.

It’s like this that Louis loves seeing Harry the most.

When Harry forgets that he doesn’t want to feel, forgets that he doesn’t know how, forgets his demons, and just _is._ It’s like watching a bird that’s been caged its whole existence and is suddenly released, overwhelmed with freedom and life, filling its lungs with what it never dared breathe and filling its eyes with what it never dared see.

Harry, wild-eyed and bushy-haired and just so _free_ and _happy_. Giggling manically as he speeds down the cobbled streets, his flesh pigmented, his blood-red mouth wide and gaping in laughter and joy and…reckless abandonment, really.

Harry, who stops his bike to wait for Louis even though it’s supposed to be a race, looking back over his shoulder at him, his eyes instinctually seeking him out, excited.

Harry, who tugs Louis along by his cold hand whenever he gets distracted by a sign or the sound of an owl.

Harry, who insists on having Louis take photographs of him in his flushed glee because “This is an artistic moment, Louis, we must immortalize it.”

Harry, who sits happily on his bike as they rest atop a hill overlooking the town, the sky swallowing them whole as they catch their breath. Who stares at the stars that alight his face and who quietly smiles as he looks up.

Because Harry’s looking up a lot lately.

And as Harry watches the sky, Louis watches Harry. Side by side, antique bike by antique fucking bike (because really, eyeroll), Harry watches the moon fade and fall, and Louis watches Harry and the delicate lines of his profile that’s bathed in serenity and soft, blue glows, perched atop the hill, atop their bikes, feet planting them on the ground, the tips of Louis’ right shoe touching Harry’s left.

“I should like to be the sky,” Harry breathes in plumes, lips slick and painfully red.

‘It’s got nothing on you,’ is what Louis wants to say. Which. Is… Yeah.

“I should like to be the sun,” Louis replies instead, before finally ripping his gaze away from Harry and looking up as well. “And you can be the moon.”

“But then we’d never see each other,” Harry says, hurt, and Louis looks over to him. He’s staring at Louis with a kitten-like disappointment, a sweet pout on his lips.

Fuck.

“Not so, young one. The moon shines because of the sun, you know. Because the sun’s always there. Just like me,” Louis says happily. “And don’t even get me started on those eclipses.”

He can feel Harry’s grin grow into a beam. A moonbeam.

“Okay. Then I don’t mind,” Harry hums, and when Louis looks back to him, his chest tightening and his throat dry, Harry’s already looking back up at the sky, his smile wide and unyielding.

**

When Louis returns home late that night, clothes soaked with the cold and his skin flushed, fingers numb, mind and chest buzzing with Harry’s smiles and Harry’s laugh as they raced back to the school grounds, Niall is sitting at their table, suited up to go, a cigar resting between his fingers as he texts.

“Home already?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow. He sheds himself of his jacket and shoes, immediately scrambling to his room for a sweatshirt.

“Haven’t gone out yet,” Niall smiles without looking up before bringing the cigar to his lips. “Sorting through my options.”

“It’s nearly two in the morning!” Louis says, shocked. His skin is damp and prickly, burning with the warmth of their flat. He thinks he can smell Harry on his clothes. Or maybe it’s in his head.

“The night is young, Tommo,” Niall says conversationally, before finally glancing up. “Where were you, then? Left me and the boys on our own! Had to scrounge up dinner from the streets!”

“Funny,” Louis deadpans with an eyeroll, but suppresses his smile as he hears Harry’s laughter echoing in his mind, remembers how he looked with the stars in his eyes. Fuck. “How are they today? Haven’t talked to them.”

“Good,” Niall says simply. He puffs on his cigar, his smile widening impishly as he stares at his phone. “And how are _you_ today? Keeping busy fucking Harry?”

Louis almost trips over a stool.

“Wha—Goddammit, Niall, fuck! We’re—we’re absolutely _not_ —“

But Niall is laughing hysterically, hearty and booming as his mouth unfurls smoke with each burst.

“You’re so easy to upset!” he laughs, clapping his knee and leaning back in his chair. “Though you _were_ both mysteriously missing.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Louis says dryly before pouring himself a glass of water, jaw set.

It’s probably best not to tell Niall where he was. Just…just because. Just because of rumors and all that.

It’s not like _that_ with Harry and him.

It’s not.

“I’m feeling pretty wasted though, Ireland. Gonna fall asleep standing up in a minute or so.” Louis chugs his glass of water, lets it wash away his discomfort and annoyance as best it can. “So I think I’m going to go to bed. You have fun though, tonight. Be safe and all that. Don’t wake me up when you stumble home. Oh, and please don’t bring back anyone. They _always_ stay till morning and it’s so tacky and odd. I can’t even _begin_ to tell you how much I despise sharing my Nutella with strangers,” he sighs, long and suffering, and Niall barks out a laugh.

“Course not. I’m over all that. I don’t take my work home with me, Tommo. ‘M a changed man.”

Well. That sentence is fairly problematic, isn’t it? If Louis’ not careful, he’s going to have a real prat for a best friend on his hands.

“Don’t be a dick, Niall. Just be safe. And for the love of God, give Rory a break, yeah? Try doing your homework one of these nights?”

“One of these nights,” Niall promises before hopping off the chair, spinning Louis (en route to his warm, luscious haven of a bed) to grab his hand and kiss it before gliding out the door, jacket in hand as he thunders a “Sweet dreams, TomTom!”

The door shuts and peace is restored and…

And Harry’s laughter is still echoing in Louis’ ears when he lies down for bed.

**

It’s mid afternoon. The lads are lazing about in Zayn’s rooms, spread on luxurious furniture and sipping champagne, the ceiling blanketed in smoke, and Niall’s asking Liam advice about which offer to take in regards to his future.

“I’ve got masses of people asking me to be on their track. I’ve even got someone who wants me to try my hand at producing. Already!” he exclaims, and Liam is listening intently and taking notes.

It’s all very commonplace and very cozy, and then Louis’ phone rings.

And it’s his mum. Yay.

Harry quirks an eyebrow as Louis stares at the screen distastefully. Noting his curiosity, Louis flashes the screen towards him.

“Mum?” Harry reads. His eyes cloud the tiniest bit, his countenance altering ever so slightly. “Answer it,” he says immediately.

“Nah,” Louis says, pocketing the phone again. “She’ll leave a voicemail. Then I’ll decide if I actually need to talk to her.”

“She’s your mum, Louis. The only one you’ve got,” Harry says lowly.

“But you don’t know her, Harry,” Louis counters, and his voice is riding the edge of snippy. “There’s a lot you don’t know about her. And the way I was raised.”

Which is true. It’s been something Louis has been toying with—spreading his life out for Harry, letting him see the blueprints and then delving into it altogether. He wants Harry to know him, wants him to understand. He doesn’t have much to tell—his life is nowhere as complex or tortured as Harry’s—but it’s the building blocks of his life and character and he wants Harry to remember his story.

And, perhaps, knowing Louis’ story may encourage Harry to reveal his own. Perhaps.

So he’s equal parts disappointed and bewitched when Harry replies, through a stream of smoke from his freshly lit cigarette:

“Good. Keep your secrets. You’re too young and beautiful not to have secrets.”

And Louis can’t think of an adequate response, his pulse picking up pace, so he replies with, “I can’t argue that, now can I?” in a voice he desperately wishes is laughing rather than squeaking.

Harry doesn’t look at him for the rest of the day.

**

It’s late in the evening on a Friday night. It’s freezing cold and a bit snowy, the school grounds quiet, icy, and white.

Zayn’s gone to the library. Niall and Liam had to do something with the rowing club—Louis can’t be bothered to remember what.

So Louis opted to join Harry in his rooms, bringing his bag full of books and a promise of “We’re going to do homework tonight, Sir Styles.”

They’re sitting in the candlelit room watching a cold rain fall, Harry fiddling with his violin on the couch beside Louis. They’ve put on the film “Wilde” in the background—Harry claims it should be playing _always_ —and the stars are visible through Harry’s wide windows, as are the clusters of white fluff that descend from the heavens.  Harry’s eyes wander to the picturesque scene, but Louis watches Harry instead as he always ends up doing _somehow_ , watches the practiced ease with which he slides the bow along the strings, eyes occasionally flitting to the movie in bored pleasure.

Their books lie untouched around them, opened halfheartedly (Louis really did try), a Victorian china set being the only thing that’s been put to use since today’s study session began those three hours ago.

Niall keeps texting Louis to “come party wit me wanker” but Louis ignores him, because watching Harry is fun and watching Harry is mesmerizing, and their quiet conversations and silly, unexpected laughs are worth far more than any over-indulged Uni party could offer.

Harry’s skin is smooth, burning soft amber from the flickers of candle flames. His deft hands continue to slide the bow, his fingernails clean and perfectly formed.  “I CAN’T CHANGE” flashes harsh against the soft glow of his wrist. He isn’t wearing his watch. The inked words are loud and Louis can’t take his eyes off of them.

Harry’s eyes are on the film, silent and watchful.

Louis’ eyes are on Harry’s wrist, intense and burning.

The movie prattles on and there’s a gaping space between their bodies on the couch, but the space is filling up with the words screaming from Harry’s wrist and the weeping notes of the music. And it’s all really sort of entrancing, really. Louis feels like he’s high and he’s hasn’t even smoked in weeks. There’s just _something_ about the moment, with the snow and Harry’s wispy curls that tickle his cheeks and the whine of the violin, that makes everything feel dream-like and unreal, makes it all seem hazy and poignant. And there’s Harry, without his watch, the watch he always, always wears because he hides that tattoo, _hides_ it, and--

And before he realizes what he’s doing, Louis’ clasping his warm fingers around Harry’s cool wrist, rubbing his thumb along the words.

The violin stops immediately.

“Why did you get this if you always hide it?” Louis mumbles inquisitively, favorite teacup nestled between his thighs, bare feet tucked beneath him.

Harry’s eyes flash down to their point of contact, dark and muddled. Slowly, he sets down his violin, before extending his arm closer to Louis, who inspects it closer, thumbs still rubbing along the cold flesh.

There’s a brief moment of silence. And then:

“I grew up in a place that didn’t quite see me. I have a family, but…I’m not sure if they even truly exist,” Harry says, voice masquerading as light but straining behind each word. His face is impossibly smooth and unmarred, glowing golden from the candles and the dark. “But when they finally did see me—my father in particular—they didn’t—“ He pauses, swallows, then continues. “I suppose they felt my character needed some alterations.” He lifts his gaze to Louis, eyes lazy, smile wry, but there’s a touch of sadness at the corners, bitterness in the mouth.

“Why would they think that?” Louis asks quietly, fingers never leaving Harry’s wrist, but it’s now out of a sort of protective embrace, the desire to touch and keep close and secure him safely in his grip.

“I had sex with a lot of boys, for a start,” Harry says bluntly, eyes now sightless and staring ahead of him, perhaps lost in thought.

Louis nods, biting the inside of his lip.

“And I was eccentric. And frivolous. And feminine. And maybe a bit silly or daft.” He stops, bringing his gaze back to Louis. He looks surrendered and very, very tired. “I don’t know, I’m not exactly sure. But they tried to 'fix' me.”

“You don’t need to be fixed,” Louis says firmly, grip tightening on Harry’s wrist, his blood beginning to thicken in its lively indignation. He always feels so much when it comes to Harry. Only Harry. 

“I can’t change, even if they want me to,” Harry replies, languid and gliding, and he’s separate from his words, refusing to let his emotions spill into the syllables and the consonants, instead making them appear to be casual and indifferent.

But fuck casual and indifferent because Louis’ throat is thick and his expression is outraged, holding onto Harry for dear life.

“Nobody should want you to change. The way you are already is—“ He swallows back a ‘perfect.’ No. That’s not…no. Come on now, Louis. Get it together. “The way you are already is just fine.” He lifts Harry’s wrist into the air. “You should be proud of this, Harry. Flaunt it. Shove it awkwardly in peoples’ faces when you meet them. Or hell, even if you’re just passing them in the street, I don’t give a fuck.”

Harry laughs.

Louis grins. “Point is, you don’t need to change. And I…” he trails off, spreading his hand over the words, letting the pads of his fingers soak up the ink. “I love it. I think it’s beautiful. Even if others don’t.”

And then suddenly there’s a suffocating sort of pressure in the air, and Louis’ ears sound like they’re ringing as Harry’s eyes lose any sense of posed nonchalance and focus on Louis. Where they had been fuzzy and distant, carefully avoiding revealing anything too deep within, they are now clear and open, like a cloudless fucking sky in June, and Louis’ fallen into the sky. It’s a bit like watching a camera focus—first fuzzy and shaky, and then suddenly so clear and bright.

It’s almost staggering, really.

He watches Louis, closely and clearly, seemingly on the verge of being overwhelmed, and Louis is so lost in everything that comes with ‘direct eye contact from Harry Styles’ that he almost misses the nearly phantom feeling of Harry’s thumb pulling back to press against the hand that Louis is lying atop his tattoo, protective and gentle.

It’s sort of like Louis’ being electrocuted. That’s what it feels like.

Harry’s sort of brushing the back of his thumb along Louis’ fingers and it’s a nearly impossible angle and should be awkward, but it’s…

Louis wants to live in this, wants to dig a hole in this and bury his bones and his fibers in it forever.

But of course he manages to ruin it.

“You need to stop living with your father,” is what his mouth decides is the best thing to say in this moment, and just like that, Harry’s hand is snatched away.

“Pardon me?” he asks, shutters closing.

Louis’ heart sinks, crashes through the floorboards. Because he's a fucking idiot.

“How can you live with a man who wants to fix you?” he implores gently, maintaining his calm beneath the small stabs of panic and frustration as Harry scoots away from him, scowling. “Everything you just said—that’s not right, Harry. He didn’t _see you?_ _You_ , of all people? You should be seen by the world, Harry, your name should be written in bloody textbooks, for fuck's sake, and—“

“He’s still my fucking father,” Harry snaps, standing up. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“So tell me!” Louis begs, standing up as well. “Tell me and maybe I can help—“

“What? Help me? Maybe you can _help_ me? What fucking right do you have to insinuate that I need _help?_ ” Harry asks, voice icier than the ground outside.

“Help the _situation_ ,” Louis amends, and now Harry’s stalking to his room, angry and closed off, so Louis trots behind him.

“I’m not leaving him,” he snarls as he suddenly whips around, finger pointed in Louis’ face—who almost walks into him, startled. “And this is the last time I’m going to tell you that, do you understand?” Harry’s angry breath is puffing in Louis’ face. The atmosphere has been smashed, sending shards of glass everywhere.

And Louis stares at Harry, swallowing because he just…can’t.

Slowly, he shakes his head, never breaking his eyes away from Harry’s burning, dull ones.

At that, Harry seems taken aback, his countenance immediately changing. He drops his hand, his anger seeping from his face as he stares at Louis, searching and lost. They remain this way for awhile, Harry staring, bereft of speech, while Louis stares back unblinkingly, softly.

And then Harry walks away, sits on the piano bench, and sinks his shoulders, his head hung ever so slightly as he stares out the windows by his bed.

So Louis sits beside him.

Silently, they sit, watching the snow drift, watching the shadows of candle flames against the walls as the movie continues in the other room, nearing its end.

Harry is so shadowed and worn beside him, struggling in ways Louis may never understand, so all he can do is sit beside him, reliving the events of the night over and over and picking apart everything he did wrong. Because Louis doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing and he has no idea how to treat this situation or Harry, not really, but he can’t stop trying, won’t ever stop, and it’s terrifying because…

Can he handle what he’s taking on? Is he doing damage to the boy?

Louis doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tired. He doesn’t look at Harry. He can’t.

From his peripherals, he sees Harry shaking his head. “Don’t be.”

And those two words strike Louis. They strike him out of his reverie and his self-doubt and they spur him to look at Harry who turns to look at him. There’s something communicated in their stare, and Louis doesn’t know what but it’s important. Important enough for Louis to never leave Harry’s side for the rest of the night.

And, slowly, the tension leaves Harry’s shoulders.

**

It’s nearly the weekend. Thank fuck.

Louis is exhausted—not so much from schoolwork (as the term is still fairly fresh and the coursework is still manageable)—but because he spends his nights stuck to the sides of his lads and can’t be bothered to be mindful of his bedtime when his courses disinterest him so. He’s taking a bunch of shit he cares little for—requirements for his degree—and it’s all fairly simple, leaving him tragically uninspired.

But, oh well. He’s not too fussed. How can he be when he’s got the four best mates in the school?

This is what he asks himself as he receives a text from Liam.

_‘”Certain Things” hit number one on the charts! Zayn and Harry want to celebrate. Dinner and cocktails? Please wear crimson. :)’_

Louis smiles as he tucks his phone into his pocket, mentally assembling an appropriate uniform as he walks back to his flat, the cold winds sharpening the rays of the sun as it falls atop the peaks of the towers around him.

**

The celebratory dinner is at Niall’s favorite restaurant—isn’t it always?—and Harry buys them all rounds and rounds of drinks (Louis is drunk, yes), his smile brighter than Louis’ ever seen it, mingling perfectly with his crimson suit and bow tie, lily pinned to his lapel. Several of the other lads in their wide circle of friends stop by, coincidentally and purposely, shaking Harry and Niall’s hands and smiling out congratulatory greetings. Edward shares a briefly intimate word with Harry, whispers something in his ear which has Harry actually flush, smiling so widely his dimple almost pops, before moving along with his date, sending warm smiles to all the boys.

After that, Harry’s aura is even brighter, searing through the dimly lit room. He’s the center of attention—whenever Niall isn’t, that is—and everybody stares at him, watches him, admires him. Liam giggles like a schoolchild at his quirks and Niall fist bumps him when he utters a bold statement and…and often Louis will catch Zayn watching him, fond and quiet and with so much, well… _love_.

And it’s sweet, it really is, because Zayn is Harry’s best friend.

It’s sweet.

But.

Louis knows their past, knows Zayn was head-over-heels in love with Harry, knows he only stopped loving him because he had to, because he found someone else he loved more, but…did that love go away? Did it?

These are the questions drunk Louis needs to know.

The endless whiskey and coke’s that Niall shoves into his hand keep asking it, and as much as he tries to ignore it and laugh with the others, allow himself to float on the waves of his inebriation, he can’t _not_ see the way Zayn watches Harry and leans over to brush his hand across Harry’s beaming cheeks. Can’t not see the tender smiles and the unnecessary touches. Or the blinding fucking adoration.

He thinks Liam sees it, too, his eyes warm and brown and very carefully watching the pair, his hand never leaving Zayn’s leg.

And then Niall toasts his own drumming skills again, loud and drunken and sloshing his drink on himself before pressing a kiss to Harry and then _that_ bothers Louis and then it only gets worse when Zayn laughs, laughs and leans forward to kiss Harry as well, a cigarette burning out between his fingers and his fucking cheekbones stopping the world from turning and his hair is so goddamn perfect that _of course_ Harry is probably attracted to him, is probably secretly in love with him, and Zayn leans still closer and he just…

Louis needs to stop drinking.

“Moving on, lads?” he announces loudly, shooting up out of his chair as Zayn’s lips find Harry’s. It’s platonic, of course it’s platonic, and Liam’s laughing now, surprised eyes seeking out Louis as all heads turn towards him.

“Are you quite all right, Louis?” Liam asks, curiously, smile still painting his lips.

Zayn’s peering at him through the wisps of smoke he always seems to have around him. Beside him, Harry’s looking closely at Louis, bright and concentrated, flecks of surprise marring his eyes. Niall’s finishing the dregs of his whiskey.

“Gonna vomit?” Niall asks with a burp, wiping his mouth. Such a prince.

“No,” Louis says, feeling the alcohol swim within him, his emotions pushing harshly against his flesh, his eyelids, his throat, all threatening to rip him open. He’s just had too much to drink. “I’m just…over this place. Want to go back for some casual drinking. At a place I can take off my shoes.”

“Mine then?” Harry asks, cheeks pink, lips pinker. He’s asking Louis. He’s surrounded by the lads but he’s asking _Louis_. Louis only.

The world feels so warm when Harry says his name. Nice and warm. 

“Yeah,” Louis nods, smiling brightly. So much alcohol, so bright, so warm. “Brilliant. I’ll use my teacup, yes? Do you have vodka, my dear boy?”

“I do,” Zayn breathes, watching Louis closely.

Louis meets his cool gaze, guilt and sadness and discomfort poisoning his insides. Because Zayn’s staring at him with a hint of concern, but with kindness and amusement and only _good_ things.

Because it’s _Zayn_.

Why the fuck was he annoyed with him? Zayn of all people? One of Louis’ best mates? The nicest, sweetest person on the planet? Who loves Liam very, very much, devotedly? Who loves Harry as a best mate _only?_

Why does any of this bother him? What the actual fuck is happening inside of him?

Fuck.

Louis just needs air.

“Perfect,” he clips, smiling even brighter, before practically running for the door, leaving a surprised silence behind him before the boys eventually follow.

**

They spend the rest of the evening at Harry’s.

The mood hasn’t gone down any despite Louis’ near-tantrum in the restaurant, everyone too blasted to take much notice of his current state, and they laugh and drink and smoke weed.

Niall thunders down on the piano, Harry at his side, Zayn laughs as he sings from his position on the floor, his quiffed hair wilted and unkempt as he lies with his feet propped up on the ornate couch, worn, leather bound books stacked beside him and providing an adequate alter for his phone which softly plays R&B. Liam’s high as a kite, laughing hysterically as he flits about the room, constantly refilling everybody’s beverages and touching their hands and faces, brandishing forth Zayn’s cigarettes and bags of crisps. He reminds Louis of the Mad Hatter with his flourishing hysterics. Zayn’s the sleeping, potentially stoned, mouse. Niall’s that fucking rabbit.

And Harry is Alice.

Louis’ really drunk.

But it’s a decent night nonetheless.

It dies down eventually as it always does, but with Zayn and Liam passed out on the floor, wrapped up in each other and reeking of alcohol and stale smoke. Niall’s taken Harry’s bed—he always manages to end up in the most comfortable spot, _always_ —and, once again, it’s just Louis and Harry. Like so often these days.

Just Louis and Harry. Sitting on the living room floor against the wall, staring out the window.

Harry’s quieted now, his joy replaced with contemplative silence as he stares out the window, his crimson bow tie undone, his shirt half-opened and pushed to the elbows, untucked and rumpled. His hair still looks perfect somehow, curly and soft and falling into his eyes. Louis notes that even his socks are crimson.

“Whatcha thinking about, Curly McCurlypants?” he asks softly, his words bumping into each other, dripping in inebriation.

At the name, Harry chuckles, low and warm and crimson. Louis closes his eyes at the sound.

“A lot of things.” He turns to Louis, face unreadable. “But nothing fun.”

“Your thoughts are always fun,” Louis slurs because he’s drunk, and reaches out a hand to tap his finger against Harry’s temple.

Harry watches, eyes fluttering instinctually, a small smirk on his lips.

“Only you think so,” he says, so, so slow. Slow enough to stop time.

“Thank the fuckin’ stars then because I’m the only one who matters,” Louis yawns happily, bringing his hand back to rest in his lap. It feels so empty. It feels empty and Louis is drunk.

“My birthday is in a week,” Harry says after a pause, his eyes back on the window.

Louis perks. “Is it?” he asks, turning to face him fully. “Well, fuck, Curly, that’s splendid! We’ll celebrate! Throw a proper bash!”

Harry’s mouth twists. “I don’t want to be nineteen.”

At that, Louis can’t help but laugh, sending Harry into a scowl.

“What?” he demands.

“I’m twenty-one. I hardly feel bad for you,” he says, laughing some more because it feels easy. Because it makes Harry’s lips quirk and twitch.

“I want to be young forever,” Harry says quietly, but he’s smiling, watching Louis’ giggles, eyes traveling across his face.

“You can be. Age is nothing important. I’m five, you know.”

“I know,” Harry deadpans immediately, dry as cracked paper, and that sends Louis into another fit of giggles.

“Ohhh, that’s it, you know. That’s it. You can be as sad about being nineteen as you want, young Harold, but I’m going to shower you in lavish presents and hugs and cuddles and all the things a proper mate would do”—Louis carefully avoids letting himself question that line of rational—“and we’re going to get spectacularly drunk because I’m spectacularly drunk right now and, I must say, this is quite a pleasant feeling.”

Harry smiles, his hands in his lap. “You are quite drunk, aren’t you?” He bops Louis on the nose. Which is fucking cute, to be quite fucking honest. Just really nice and so cute. 

Louis leans his head back against the walls, smiles at Harry. Because Harry is beautiful. Harry is special. Harry…

Harry means so much to him. With his smiles and his quirks and the way he looks at Louis. Harry is the world, Harry is everything, Harry is the oxygen that fills Louis' lungs and blood cells and is created by plants and leaves.

And Louis is drunk.

“You’re so nice, Harry,” he says, still smiling. “You seemed like such a dick, I absolutely despised you when I met you. But you’re so _nice_ , Harry. You’re my best mate.”

Oops. Strong words.

But Harry doesn’t flinch, instead smiling wider, leaning his head back against the wall as well, facing closer to Louis. “I’m not as nice as you. You’re better than me, Louis.”

The sentence singes Louis as he pushes his head off the wall, his smile falling into a deep frown.

“That’s not true,” he says, shaking his head, his tongue thick and soaked in vodka. “Nobody’s better than you. That’s not true. You’re wonderful Harry. That’s why we love you, us lads. That’s why I love to be around you, yeah?” His words are drunken, sad, but they’re real and Louis hopes Harry can hear that in his voice as he tries to clear his vision, school his face into seriousness. One of these days he’s really going to need to be sober for one of his and Harry’s talks. “You’re incredible, so incredible, and I’m lucky to know you! I am! Like…’m not better than you, Harry. Not at all.”

Silence follows, as Harry looks down at his hands, all traces of his smile gone.

“We can’t be best mates, though,” he says, so, so quiet that Louis has to lean in to hear. “You deserve better friends, Louis. Liam, Zayn, Niall…they’re good. Usually, at least. I’m not. I’m not good, Louis.” And as he looks up, eyes wide and sad and lost, Louis feels it again, feels all the emotion pressing against his skin, threatening to rip him to shreds. It’s too much.

He thought they were past this?

Then again…it is Harry. Harry, who’s never been exposed to these sort of sentiments and emotions, who's never really understood the sort of kindness that asks nothing in return. This is all new to him. And Louis needs to remember that. Needs to remember Zayn telling him to be patient with him all that time ago.

“That’s not true,” Louis says simply.

Harry blinks, brings his vacant stare to the window, composed, quiet, forlorn. “Nobody deserves what I’m capable of,” he replies.

Louis stares at him, at a loss for words. Because what can he say? What can he do to convince Harry that he’s something? That he’s everything? That flaws are normal, good, even?

He’s just too fucking drunk for this. Fuck.

“Harry Edward Styles,” he says, scooting closer and laying his hand atop Harry’s arm. Its stiffens, but Harry doesn’t move it away. “You have all these thoughts in your brain that aren’t true, they’re simply not true. But the thing is, I’m not allowed in there, right? I’m not allowed inside your brain because it’s quite a small place and there’s no proper entrance.” Harry laughs, his skin warming. He’s still not looking at Louis, but his smile lingers. “But if I could, if I could find a door and shrink myself to proper size, I would go in there, Harry. I’d go in and pick out all those terrible thoughts. I’d dig them out and peel them off the walls and clean them out from the corners because they’re simply _not true_. And I don’t want you, someone like you, to waste a second of the day thinking that they are because you have the world in front of you. You’re not like anybody else. Nobody. You’re the only one, Harry, the only one, and that’s so important. That’s so important, and even if you have a flaw here, a flaw there, a bit of luggage in your pockets…that’s all right. That’s all right because….”

Louis searches for the words, searches as Harry now stares at him, eyes wide and shimmering, shock and trepidation caught under the lids.

Louis swallows. "Because, ‘Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic,’” he quotes, his mind on the piece of paper tucked in Harry’s journal, the quote that he scribbled all those months ago that drunken morning after he’d woken up on the school grounds to find Harry missing.

It’s the first time he’s spoken of it aloud, and Harry’s eyes widen at the words. He looks glazed and nearly terrified and…amazed. Harry looks amazed.

It destroys Louis’ insides.

“The quote,” Harry remarks softly, eyes locked with Louis’. “I knew it was you.”

“Obviously,” Louis says, trying for lighthearted, but his voice cracks, feeling weak.

Eyes still locked on Louis’, Harry’s hand slowly begins to raise. He reaches out his fingers, soft and slender and white, and—as his eyes flick down, breaking their stare—the pads of his fingers come to rest atop Louis’ lips. He stares in amazement, in reverence almost, and Louis cannot fucking breathe, his lips burning with the cool touch of Harry’s fingers on his fucking mouth.

And then, just like that, Harry’s standing up.

“I’m tired,” he mumbles, already stalking away. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Harry,” Louis says, completely startled (because what??), fumbling to stand, his limbs heavy. “Wait--”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Harry repeats, and when he turns to look at Louis, his eyes are cold. “Goodnight.”

And he’s gone.

**

The next day, Harry is missing.

Of fucking course.

Louis had went to his rooms after his lecture, as is custom, and was met with a locked door.

He texted—no reply.

He called—the phone was off.

Fuck.

“Why does he always fucking do this?” he says angrily to Niall as they’re on the couch.

Niall glances at him, before returning his eyes to the television screen.

“You scare him, Lou.”

“Yeah? Well he scares me more,” he grumbles, before turning his attention back to the textbook on his lap, feeling empty.

**

Harry’s missing for nearly a week. A fucking week.

And wasn’t his birthday coming up? Is this because he doesn’t want to grow up?

Louis doesn’t know.

All he can do is stalk Zayn.

“But where does he _go_ , Zayn?” he asks for the hundredth time as he follows him around his rooms, Liam tapping diligently away on his laptop.

“I can’t think of any other way to say ‘I don’t know,’ Louis,” Zayn sighs, keeping his patience. Having just finished making his canvas board, he hoists it up, setting it up against the far wall where his paints, easel, and pallet lay.

“But surely you know something,” Louis says impatiently, watching as Zayn squeezes a shiny, wet tail of yellow paint out of the tube. “This is the longest he’s ever been gone. I’m fucking worried. You should be, too.”

Zayn’s silent for a moment, his eyes scanning his paint selection, plucking up tube after tube and squirting them purposefully on the pallet. “There’s nothing we can do,” he shrugs, not looking at him. “He’ll return. He always does.”

“But why does he _go?”_ Louis asks, teeth clenched with frustration as he digs his hands into his hair. He flounces down on the couch, watching as Zayn begins selecting brushes. “I hate this.”

“He’ll come back, Louis,” Zayn says calmly as he smears the first streak of purple paint on the canvas, thick, clumpy, and oily. “He’ll come back.”

**

Harry still hasn’t come back.

Louis refuses to count how many days. Refuses to worry about him. Refuses to wonder how this works academically. Will he be expelled? Will he fail?

Louis refuses to think about it.

Instead, he’s sitting on his couch as Niall gets ready for another night out. He’s currently singing in the shower. Normally Louis would go to Zayn’s. But apparently it’s another ‘date night’ for him and Liam. So. Louis is stuck on his couch, playing video games and not thinking.

It’s really fun.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Niall calls as he exits the shower, wrapped only in a towel, his skin moist and pink. Most people would go to their room and put on clothes. But Niall? Niall clomps over and sits at the piano, begins tinkering out a delicate melody.

“I’m sure,” Louis says. Because, no. He’s had enough of people. The problem is people. He needs to stay away from people. He wants to be alone on an island, making radios out of coconuts and befriending parrots.

“I’ll text you where we go all the same,” Niall says, playing more intently. The sound is rather nice, actually.

Louis pauses his game, drops the controller at his side and lets himself listen, leaning his head back on the couch and staring at the ceiling.

“It’d be good for you to get out, you know,” Niall says.

“I don’t agree.”

Niall snorts. “Course you don’t. But all the same.”

Louis shuts his eyes. He listens to the melody, the sound of the keys.

It reminds him of Harry.

“You okay, Tommo?” Niall asks, but it’s softer, a softer sound than Niall usually makes, and Louis swallows at that. Because that pings him for some reason.

“I’m incredible. Perfect, even,” he says, but his voice is scratchy and he doesn’t open his eyes.

Niall doesn’t say anything after that.

Eventually the piano stops, much to Louis’ sadness, and he’s just about to open his eyes and resume his game, when suddenly arms wrap around his shoulders from the back of the couch, warm skin pressing against him, hair tickling his cheek.

“Love you,” Niall says sincerely, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

It shouldn’t prickle Louis’ eyes. But it does.

“You’re not wearing enough clothes to hug me,” Louis manages, but his voice is doing that thing again. It’s cracking because it hates him. And he hates it back.

Niall laughs, the sound deep as it rumbles against Louis’ back, before he finally lets go, mussing up Louis’ hair as he walks away.

“I’ll text you the address,” he says again, and Louis can’t help but smile as he finally opens his eyes, staring fondly as Niall shuts his door.

At least he has Niall.

**

Niall texts Louis a couple of hours later, after Louis' just finished a sappy romcom and an embarrassingly large bag of crisps.

He texts him the address first. Then.

_‘Forgot my keys FUCK’_

_‘b awake when I get back?’_

Louis sighs. He was planning on wrapping himself in a cocoon of despair, but. He supposes he can stay awake all night. Sure. How fun.

_‘Yea’_

So he puts on another movie and opens another bag of crisps.

**

The knock on the door eventually comes, far later than Louis had planned on staying up.

It’s 4:25 am.

He’s tired, he’s cold, he’s a bit sick from eating so much and doing absolutely nothing, and he certainly doesn’t want to get up from the couch, even for Niall. Doesn’t he have Rory for this kind of shit?

“Coming, you knob!” Louis grumbles as he gets up, ripping the blankets off of him and stalking forward. Why does he have friends again?

He opens the door forcefully, painting his face in unabashed annoyance as he greets Niall with, “Well, what took you so fucking long?”

Except.

Harry.

It’s. Harry.

It’s not Niall.

It’s Harry.

Harry’s standing at the door. Harry’s there, with his long black jacket and white shirt and tight trousers and black boots and wilted curls and a face that’s pink from the wind, a face that look lost, and it’s Harry that’s standing at his door and not Niall.

“Harry,” he manages, his whole demeanor shifting, hand immediately dropping from the door and falling limply to his side. “What are you doing here?” he asks, everything buzzing. Questions are pelting his skull, his fingers itch, there’s so much confusion and relief and anger in him… But all he can do is stare.

Harry stares back, breathing heavy, eyes pained and scared and kissed with exhaustion. He looks like an abandoned kitten, dark and shadowed and abysmally alone, and somehow so small despite his height and prestige. Despite his long limbs and neverending torso.

“I didn’t want to go home,” is all he says quietly. He’s not blinking, just staring at Louis.

“Come in, you idiot,” Louis says, but his insides are panicked, flashing with worry as he tugs him inside, shutting the door behind him.

Harry looks around, a bit lost, a bit fearful, just standing still. Almost as if not daring to move.

Louis notes the state of the room—the crumpled crisp bags strewn about on the couch, the crumbs in the cushions, the paraphernalia that litter the coffee table beside half-drunk bottles of beer and whiskey.

“Er, this way,” he says, leading Harry to his room and away from his nest of shame.

As soon as they enter, Harry sits on the edge of the bed, stiff and rigid. His hands are buried deep in his pockets and he drops his head, stares down at his feet. He’s flushed and Louis wonders how cold his skin is to the touch, wonders how long he’s been outside. He brings a hand up to his cheek—freezing.

Harry doesn’t move away, just closes his eyes at the contact.

“You’re so cold,” Louis says quietly, but he doesn’t remove his hand. He can’t.

Harry nods, but remains silent, eyes still closed.

So Louis sits beside him.

“Where were you?” he asks, unable to tear his gaze away as he finally removes his hand.

Harry’s eyes flick open. “I don’t want to talk,” he says, looking up at Louis. “Please don’t make me talk,” he practically begs, so quiet, and he just looks so fucking tiny and frail, like a baby bird that’s fallen out of the nest. Fuck.

It itches at Louis, his curiosity claws at his brain, but he ignores it, nodding instead. “Course not. I’d never do that. I’m not Niall, am I?”

A small laugh escapes Harry despite his woe.

“No. You’re not Niall,” he says quietly, his eyes finding Louis’. He looks so, so tired.

“Go to sleep, yeah?” Louis asks. “Take the bed. I’ll bring you tea in the morning,” he smiles, no questions asked.

Harry nods, a small smile forming, only briefly. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and he sounds so fucking grateful that it tears Louis apart all over again.

As Louis begins standing up, ready to make himself comfortable on the couch, Harry catches his hand, fingers soft and icy, delicately holding on.

“Stay?”

It’s one word. One tiny, seemingly insignificant word.

But it’s that fucking word that sends Louis spiraling into a thousand fucking directions, his heart exploding within his chest and splattering the walls of his ribcage.

“Just, sit beside me, or—“ Harry begins, childlike, and Louis knows. He just knows. Knows that Harry doesn’t want to be alone but doesn’t know how to ask not to be.

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, his ears ringing, as Harry toes off of his boots and slides his jacket off.

His mind is whirring—because wasn’t Harry just fucking missing? and now he’s here, in Louis’ bed??—but he tries to ignore it, tries to silence everything that’s erupting, and instead climbs into the bed beside Harry as he tucks himself under the covers. Neither remove their clothing. Louis briefly considers asking Harry if he wants to borrow sweatpants—because how on earth could he sleep in those trousers?—but he doesn’t, instead just settling himself carefully onto the mattress and breathing.

He flicks the bedside lamp off, sending the room into darkness, the light from the living room gently pouring from the cracks of the door. They’re side by side, backs flat, and Louis doesn’t dare touch Harry. He doesn’t because…because he doesn’t want to crowd him. Doesn’t want to push or shove this fragile vase off of its stand, sending it shattering to the ground.

But then suddenly Harry’s twisting, turning to face Louis and scooting his body closer, his hands tucked into his chest, and Louis is blinded by it, blinded completely, and so he’s wrapping his arms around Harry’s frame before he can stop himself, placing his chin atop his head and pressing him into his chest, breathing his soft curls and closing his eyes as Harry exhales, long and slow, his body relaxing.

Harry’s asleep within a few short minutes, body now warm and pliable, and as Louis holds him, he doesn’t dare fall asleep because he doesn’t trust himself to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was soooooo long. My apologies!! I just had a lot to say I guess. Heh. Thank you alllll! I love you alllll! Beautiful blossoms, I want to make a bouquet of you, le siiigh <3 <3 
> 
> This chapter's song is "Perfect Day." Lou Reed sings it (RIP *le sob*) but Scala does an amaaaazing job of it. And it was actually the Scala version that inspired a lot of this chappa. Lou's inspired the rest of it. 
> 
> If you wanna hear the Scala one (why wouldn't you? It's stunning), here it lie : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZgoiRIJrWs
> 
> Message me any questions or feelings on the tumblrrr <3


	29. XXVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis tries to forget.

It’s very early morning. Louis can tell by the way the sunlight looks pale, gliding into the room and sparkling the air with dust particles.

Can tell by the way it illuminates his curtains, setting the creamy, wispy fabric on white fire.

Can tell by the way that Harry’s pale skin glows beneath it, can tell by how his hair is haloed in shimmering, frizzy light, and can tell by how his breathing blends perfectly with the clouds that are beginning to roll into the pastel blue sky.

Louis has slept, maybe, a total of fifty minutes the entire night. And it was a tumultuous fifty minutes.

Because even in sleep he thought about Harry (always Harry), and his arms only gripped the boy’s sleeping frame all the tighter, afraid he would slip away again. Because, fuck, Harry literally showed up on his doorstep out of _nowhere_. In one blink he could be gone, swallowed up by his cold, cruel world once more, leaving Louis’ arms barren and head clouded. And, really, that sort of creeps Louis the fuck out because there is just something terribly wrong with this picture and it has _a lot_ to do with the bags under Louis’ eyes and his vice-like grip on an unconscious, emotionally-stinted boy.

This definitely isn’t how he imagined university to be.

Which. Oh well.

He remains that way, clutching onto a blissfully sleeping Harry as the sunlight strengthens, until at last his bladder speaks—and there’s no arguing with that bitch. Carefully, he removes himself from Harry, whose arms are tucked into his chest, whose brow immediately furrows at the loss of contact. Louis can’t help but smile at that as his feet hit the cool wooden floor, his hands hot and soft from where they’d been lost in the fabric of Harry’s shirt. He watches Harry curl into himself, quiet and small and young, and fuck, Harry wasn’t meant to sleep alone, he just wasn’t—he needs Louis back in there with him, enveloping his too-long limbs and petite bones. Louis needs to climb back in that bed this instant.

But.

But he really has to pee, like _now_. He fucking hates his bladder.

So he slips out of the room silently, his heart on fire.

It’s as he’s creeping back to his bedroom, his skin icy and his arms already itching to embrace Harry’s sweet, sleeping figure again, (he refuses to feel creepy about this—kittens snuggle together and nobody questions that, do they?) that there’s another knock at the front door.

Louis blinks.

A visitor? At this hour? They don’t even _get_ visitors.

He opens it suspiciously, slowly, before he’s practically bowled over by a ball of blonde energy.

“Heya mate! Good morning!” Niall booms, thundering into the flat and breaking the quiet serenity. “Sorry I didn’t come home last night—figured you’d be sleeping anyways. But here I am now! I’ve really got to make another spare key and have Rory keep a set.” His clear blue eyes and pale, golden hair look like the morning, his smile shooting forth the rays of the sun, his rumpled green jumper and black suede jacket soft and clean like fresh grass.

But Louis still wants to kill him. With a shovel.

“Shh!” he reprimands, glaring. “Keep your damn voice down will you, man? He’s still sleeping!”

It’s just as Louis is inwardly beating _himself_ with a shovel (he absolutely did not intend to inform Niall of Harry’s choice of sleeping quarters because that is going to turn into a _whole_ thing) that Niall’s confused eyes skim clear past Louis, settling somewhere over his right shoulder.

Fuck.

Louis’ stomach plonks a bit as Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, spinning around almost fearfully despite fully knowing what to expect.

And yep. There, in the frame of Louis’ bedroom door, is Harry Styles, sleep rumpled and crinkly, his whipped curls lying in glossy chunks, his eyes wide and puffy, blearily blinking into the golden light that streams through the windows and cloaks his limbs. His clothes are sloppy and unkempt—his white shirt (adorned in tiny embroidered rabbits which Louis isn’t endeared by at all, except he absolutely is) is almost completely unbuttoned, displaying his scribbled tattoos and smooth chest. His trousers are zipped, not buttoned, and look a right state.

Basically, he looks like he’s been thoroughly fucked.

And Louis is the main suspect. He wants to stick his head under the sink and run the water for seven hours.

“Oh,” Niall says, surprised, eyes widening almost as much as his grin. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping Harry Styleses here now. Good morning, mate. Nice shirt.” Niall speaks easy, almost smug, his eyes occasionally glancing victoriously at Louis—who currently wants to throw a blender at the little shit—and moving forward to muss up Harry’s curls even further.

Louis feels his lips twitch at Harry’s kitten scowl, batting away Niall hands with the most childish pout known to man.

“I wouldn’t worry, Curly, just let him do his thing,” Louis says with a fighting smile. “It can’t look any worse than it already is.” He looks pointedly at his hair and he feels his smile intensify as Harry brings a self-conscious hand to it.

He sifts his fingers through the tangled clumps, his eyes cast to the floor. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t laugh, just glides his fingers across his scalp, his feet pressed together, his other hand fisted loosely at his side.

He seems…off. Harry seems off.

Louis watches him closely, gazing at the hollows of his cheeks, the pomegranate of his mouth.

Niall’s eyes flit between them as the silence settles.

“Right,” he finally says, still glancing between Louis and Harry and taking a healthy step back. “I think I’ll just grab some breakfast. That bakery around the corner. Text me if you need anything or want a Napoleon or some shit.” He shoots one last amused smirk at Louis before turning around and zipping up his jacket, clomping to the door in his giant white Nikes.

“Um,” is all Harry says, and Louis perks, immediately walking up to his side, searching his face.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instantly (settle, Tomlinson, settle) as his shoulder bumps Harry’s. He stops himself from brushing the hair off of Harry’s forehead to inspect him closer. At this rate, he'll be attempting to swaddle him in nursery blankets and change his diaper. 

Settle, Tomlinson.

Harry meets Louis’ gaze, startled and quiet. His eyes are dark, etched in lines and teetering on grumpy as he takes a tiny step back and nods, placing distance between them.

“A bit, yeah.”

“When’s the last time you ate?” Louis clucks, mother-henning the shit out of him, and he really, _really_ wants to find that shovel so he can crack it over his own head because _what has gotten into him??_

Harry’s thoughts seem to be on a similar track because he looks downright terrified, taking another step back. “It’s been awhile I guess,” he mumbles quietly, staring closely at Louis, brows knitted.

Of course it has been. The boy’s probably starved.

Fuck.

“Right then. Ireland, get us tons of food—as much as the bakery has to offer!” Louis announces boldly, turning around to face Niall, hands on hips.

Niall grins, is about to respond, when—

“You go,” Harry says softly, poking gently at Louis’ shoulder.

Louis spins back around, eyes surprised. “Me?”

Harry nods, eyes locked with Louis’, head tilted down ever so slightly. “Yeah, go with him. Bring me back the best, yeah? You—“ Harry swallows, his eyes falling to the floor briefly before he brings them back up, a tight smile widening his lips. “You know my taste better than him. I couldn’t possibly eat a Napoleon on a Saturday.”

His voice sounds off. Something about Harry is off.

Louis’ innards twist a bit, but he smiles, nodding. “All right, then. Text me if anything in particular inspires you. Otherwise I’m just going to get you the ugliest thing they have, okay? I know how you like ugly things,” Louis says cheekily, donning his jacket.

A light laugh escapes Harry, sending Louis into pools of relief.

He really needs to stop caring so much.

“And feel free to have as much as tea as you like. I’ve got quite a selection, you know,” Louis says, as Niall hums impatiently. “Even mum says I always keep the best.”

Something in Harry’s face flickers, bright and tornadic, before disappearing completely, leaving trepidation and sadness. “Your mum?” he asks softly.

Louis nods, brow furrowing.

Something is definitely off.

Harry swallows, looks away. “I wish I had my mother.”

And that sentence…that is a huge sentence. That is a fucking enormous sentence that Harry has just set down in their living room, and fuck, Louis wants to inspect every inch of Harry’s skin to see if he’s all right because where did that come from?? And what’s wrong?? And what does that mean??

Something is so, so wrong.

“Harry?” Louis asks quietly, stepping forward, but Harry steps back.

“Talk later?” Harry asks lightly, clearing his throat. “’M hungry.” A sheepish smile makes it past his lips.

Fuck. Louis is torn.

“Fuck’s sake, I shoulda just left without you,” Niall sighs with frustration, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Louis looks at Harry one last time for reassurance. Because _should_ he be leaving? When Harry is obviously balancing precariously on an unknown precipice?

“Go,” he urges, shushing him forward, and he flashes a tiny pink smile, one that Louis wants to collect and scoop into his pocket to keep his hands warm.

“Going,” Louis smiles in a song, giving a squeeze to Harry’s hand for reassurance.

Harry’s smile deepens, gazing at Louis.

“See you soon, mate!” Niall calls, clearly irritated, already out the door and leaving it wide open for Louis.

“Coming, coming,” Louis grumbles, ripping himself away from Harry--an honest struggle. Before he steps out, he sends one last look back to him. “We’ll be back in a minute. I hope you’re prepared to eat,” he grins. “And whatever you don’t finish, we’re going to have to throw at people tonight when we go out. So just keep that in mind, Curly. Wouldn’t want breakfast pastries sticking to posh kids’ Burberry jackets, now would we?”

Harry laughs again. “We absolutely would,” he smiles, eyes growing warmer.

Louis grins, winks, then goes to shut the door.

“Louis.”

He pauses, turning back around to look at Harry who’s walking forward, face serious. He waits as Harry’s eyes begin to cloud over, as the sunlight mutes the room in calm. Then Harry sighs, blinking hard, before opening his eyes, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

“Bring a cheese danish, yeah?”

There’s something in Harry’s voice that convinces Louis that that is not what Harry was going to say. A tired sort of surrender that marks the words and dots the question mark that reveals that there is just…something going on.

But Louis doesn’t know what, couldn’t know what, and so, with a laugh and a shake of the head, he merely replies with:

“You ass,” before shutting the door and firmly keeping his worry at bay as he trots to catch up with Niall.

**

It really shouldn’t come as a surprise when, upon Louis and Niall’s return, Harry is gone.

But it breaks Louis’ heart a bit anyway.

**

_‘Where did u go??’_

_‘Something came up.’_

Louis sighs in frustration, resists the urge to throw his phone out the window.

“NIALL,” he bellows from his position on the couch, face down in pillows and sprawled, his sweatpants bunched at his ankles.

A tinny voice drifts from the bathroom door, shower on at full blast. “WHAT.”

“WE GOING OUT TONIGHT?”

“FUCK YEAH.”

Louis smirks, immediately going back to his phone.

_‘U comin out with us tonight?’_

There’s a pause, one where Louis thinks his eyes may be burning holes through the screen of his phone, before it vibrates, Harry’s name and reply flashing on the screen.

_‘Of course.’_

Thank fuck.

**

Louis and Niall arrive at Zayn’s at five, decked in their best club wear and colognes. Niall put a bit too much on tho. (“You smell like a cheap department store.” “You _look_ like a cheap department store.” “Ouch, Ireland. Ouch.”)

It’s all very customary as they enter, with Zayn and Liam wrapped up in each other by the fireplace, Liam giggling, the sound like little bubbles popping in the warm air, as Zayn buries his face in his neck and whispers velveteen words, his perfectly styled raven hair positively glinting amongst the candles and crystals, a neat fedora resting atop it. They both look gorgeous, look even better together, shrouded in their charcoals and ebonies, their shoes shiny and sleek and so fucking pristine. Everything about Zayn and Liam is pristine.

And it makes Louis smile as he enters, wearing his own indecently tight black trousers, Oxfords, and patterned blue button-up (“Blouse,” Niall named it bluntly. “Not blouse,” Louis countered hatefully), flicking his hair out of his eyes as Liam paws at Zayn who just holds him all the closer, adoration imbedded in the fibers of his smile.

They’re so fucking adorable.

“You’re so fucking disgusting,” Niall gags almost immediately, shaking his head and immediately picking up a cigar and a bottle of Hennessey. “Isn’t it exhausting, being so up each other’s arses all the goddamn day?”

Zayn’s smile widens, but he never takes his eyes off of Liam. “Never.”

Liam giggles more, delighted, burying his face in Zayn’s neck.

This is the point Louis would normally respond, throw back some amusing comment that simultaneously slanders both the happy couple and Niall, but.

But.

But, unfortunately, Louis’ eyes are caught somewhere else.

Because Harry is here.

And Harry’s not alone.

“Harry,” Louis says immediately upon seeing him, the name sitting in the air, dead.

Harry—who is currently in a chair beneath a pile of scantily clad bodies—looks up instantly, his hair mussed from several different hands, a few specks of glitter flecking his cheeks. His eyes are hazy.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he sing-songs, before grinning and returning his attention back to the tiny blonde girl who is currently biting his cheek.

Biting. His. Cheek.

The bitch is actually biting him. Like a chew toy. And Harry is…laughing? Harry likes being gnawed on? Like yesterday’s newspaper? Like a bit of chicken that won’t unstick from the bone? He’s just letting this tart glaze his face in her mouth and this is a worthwhile experience?

Fuck shit fuck shit.

In this moment, Louis feels very connected to Zeus. Hurling lightning bolts at humans seems like a very plausible and pleasurable past time. Fire engulfs Louis.

“Hello,” he greets, his voice already an octave lower, an odd feeling clawing at the back of his throat as he watches the pile of bodies cover Harry’s own, laughing and simpering and pouring back glasses of champagne. Cigarettes are passed between them all, lipstick and spit marring the ends, and Louis watches as a young boy with feathery golden hair slides it between Harry’s lips, his eyes intent on his face.

Louis’ fingernails dig into his palms.

Harry doesn’t reply.

Something is _incredibly_ wrong.

“So where are we going?” Niall’s voice bursts through the silence, splitting the room in half, and Louis is one side, Harry and the harpies on the other. He can feel Niall’s eyes on him. Can feel his worry. His pity.

Fuck.

“Clubs, correct?” Louis asks nonchalantly, turning from the horrid display and mustering up his easiest smile and pose even though it sends shards through him. What the fuck is going on? And _why??_

Because if he’s going to spend the rest of his night being on the receiving end of one of Harry’s episodes—the one where he buries himself alive and pushes Louis to the farthest corners of the universe—then he’s certainly not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s absolutely tearing him upside. Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Louis is going to have a good night.

A good night.

A great night.

(And he had even toyed with the idea of making this an impromptu birthday celebration for the son of a bitch.) (Fuck that.)

“Clubs sound good,” Zayn murmurs as Liam lights his cigarette.

“Indeed—I’m in the mood for a bit of dancing,” Liam smiles toothily.

“Marvelous!” Louis announces, volume rising because he thinks he might have just heard a distinctive lip smack and _no,_ he is not putting up with that. “Let’s go then, shall we?”

“It’s not even six o’clock!” Liam laughs, striding over to Louis. He links arms with him, smiling winningly. “Surely we should have a few drinks? Just a few before we go, yeah? Zayn?”

Zayn nods from his spot by the fireplace, fixing his hair in the mirror and straightening his collar, cigarette dangling between perfect lips, smoke snaking to the ceiling. “Sounds good to me.”

“Even better to me. I’m parched,” Harry’s voice purrs from behind.

Louis’ jaw tightens.

He turns to look at Harry, catching his eye. In the split second that their gazes connect, Louis sees it. Louis sees a flash of guilt, a flash of apology in Harry’s eyes, his face falling into openness.

And then Harry looks away, a deep frown settling on his lips. He’s agitated. He’s upset. He doesn’t want to be doing this.

But…he is. He’s pushing Louis out _again_. And Louis doesn’t even know how to begin feeling or thinking about this.

 _Fuck_.

It’s going to be a long night.

**

When they finally arrive at the club, it’s absolutely packed.

The first thing Liam does is guzzle down a row of shots, passing every other one to each of the lads as they toast. Louis hears one of the girls in Harry’s harem whisper a, “Can I drink mine out of your dimple?” with a little giggle and Louis almost smashes the tiny glass in his hand instantly. It wouldn’t even matter if he did, in all honesty. He already feels shards of something cutting him up.

Everything sucks.

“Let’s dance!” Niall roars, eyes on Louis (he’s still worrying, still pitying, can probably see the tension in Louis’ grip, the frustration in his eyes) and grabs his hand and flings him into the mass of gyrating bodies.

So Louis dances, leaving Harry behind.

**

An immeasurable amount of time goes by, and all Louis is familiar with is the sound of a thick, steady beat that presses against his ribs and heart, clogging his throat, and the continuous flash of neon lights that saturate the sweaty limbs of the bodies pushed all around him. The shadows cast on the walls are eery, everyone’s arms looking like snakes. His hair is wet and hot, his skin moist and sparkling, and his jeans feel suffocating and tight, splattered in beer and martinis. He feels a bit like he’s drowning, drowning in lava or color or maybe just plain water—boiling water—and he’s been bought several drinks by a very pretty boy with good hair and clean teeth.

Pretty Boy is currently dancing with (on?) him. Has been dancing on him for the past five songs or so.

Niall’s nearby, is keeping an eye on Louis seemingly, repeatedly motioning questions to Louis that Louis thinks mean “Is he bothering you?” and “Do you want me to get rid of him?” Bless Niall and his protective streak. It warms Louis’ erratic heart.

Truth is, Pretty Boy _is_ sorta bothering him. And he _does_ want to get rid of him. He doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel any connection or pulsing attraction—only a mild sort of interest at seeing a pretty face so close.

But Louis doesn’t get rid of him. He doesn’t, he won’t, because ever since Pretty Boy has taken an interest in Louis, Harry’s eyes have never left them. From every single angle of the club, from every corner and crowd they’ve been pressed to, Harry’s always found them, always watched them.

Louis watches him watching them.

Watches Harry’s harpies losing interest as he guzzles drink after drink, never removing his gaze from Louis, never bothering to touch or soothe them as they pet his legs and slide hands beneath his jacket. One by one, they drift away, float away, rot away.

The beat pounds harder, the whole world sickly blue and bright.

Pretty Boy breathes on Louis’ neck. “You’re fucking gorgeous. The fittest boy I’ve ever seen,” he slurs, happy, sliding his hands across Louis’ chest, fingers catching on the buttons.

Louis stares at Harry, sweat dripping down his neck. “Yeah,” he pants, hundreds of arms waving all around him, shadows and light flickering across Harry’s intent features.

Neither blink. Just stare.

“Come back with me?” Pretty Boy asks, timid, hopeful, pressing wet lips against Louis’ neck. Their hips move in time and Louis closes his eyes because Harry’s eyes burn and this boy’s hands are cold.

His heart’s beating hard. Whether it be from dancing, from the boy, from the liquor, from Harry…. It just beats harder. The world feels like poison.

“Well?” Pretty asks again, lips moving further down, sliding over the nape of Louis’ neck.

He opens his eyes. Harry looks _tortured_.

“No. No—I,” Louis breathes, staring at Harry, feeling so sad, so sick, so overwhelmed. And fuck. He feels his eyes growing wet. What the fuck is happening? Harry keeps staring, small, far away, never moving a muscle. “I can’t.”

“What?” Pretty says, startled. He turns Louis to look at him, breaking his gaze with Harry. “Why not?”

Louis feels Harry’s eyes on his back.

“I just can’t. I’m—I’m not—“ Louis tries, but he doesn’t know, doesn’t know why not. He’s in fucking university and he’s got a healthy libido and a damn impressive sexual history and, let’s be real, he’s fit as fuck. He should absolutely be going home with this pretty creature (who’s caught more than a few lustful stares and yet he only has eyes for _Louis_ ) but he…can’t.

He still feels Harry’s eyes. Harry.

He bites his cheek.

That’s why he can’t.

Louis is just opening his mouth, ready to resolutely decline the offer (and having no idea how to do it), when suddenly a warm body is pressed against his own.

“Hey, mate. Ease off, yeah? This is my boyfriend you’re dancing with, you cunt.”

Louis gapes at Niall.

“Boyfriend?!” Pretty boy squeaks, glowing pale and immediately bolting backwards. “I’m sorry, mate! I didn’t know, I swear! I—“ he flounders, flushing, but Niall raises his hand.

“Nah, nah. It’s fine. Just fuck off, yeah? I might get jealous.” Niall sneaks a wink at Louis.

He resists the urge to laugh, instead biting his lips and nodding. “Yep. This is my boyfriend. This is what I got.”

Niall jabs him in the back and Louis fights a smile. He fucking loves Niall. Best mates for life absolutely.

It isn’t long before Pretty Boy disappears back into the crowd after apologizing profusely and looking like he maybe weed himself. As soon as he’s gone, Louis and Niall burst into laughter.

“How did you know I needed saving?” Louis guffaws, drunk and relieved.

“I was keeping an eye on you. You have a very expressive face, Tommo. Can’t keep a secret to save your fucking life.”

“The story was written on my face?” Louis laughs harder, and he doesn’t know why, but he laughs and Niall laughs with him. Then he moves to leave, mussing Louis’ hair, but Louis grabs his arm. “Stay, will ya? Pretend to be my boyfriend. I want to dance, Ireland. But I don’t want to break any more hearts.” He winks the words out, feeling prickly and erratic and lost in too many flashing lights and too much bass.

Niall laughs, hearty and booming, before nodding, immediately beginning to exaggeratedly grind on Louis. It’s so fucking obscene and Niall looks so ridiculous and Louis can’t stop laughing as they dance, dance, dance, everything just getting more ridiculous as they play it all up to the highest degree. He can honestly say he never expected to spend the larger portion of his night dirty dancing with Niall fucking Horan. Especially when he finds himself bent over, laughing nonsensically, while Niall smacks his ass in time to a Katy Perry song. He briefly sees Zayn laughing hysterically at them from a few bodies away, snapping pictures. He doesn’t see Liam, he doesn’t see Harry.

Harry.

He doesn’t see Harry.

Like having been hit with a live wire, Louis jolts, immediately standing up, raising himself on his tippy toes to look over the crowd.

“Where’s Harry?” he shouts as Niall begins winking at a cluster of boys who have gathered nearby, admiring his skills. (Which is absurd and Louis will save that judgment for another time.) 

“Dunno, mate. But I need to piss.” He takes off without a backward glance.

Louis’ eyes continue to search for Harry as he fights through the crowd. He’s even sweatier, even messier, even dizzier, but he fights through color and sweat and vibration—and then he sees Liam. Who is…sitting on the floor?

“Liam?” he asks cautiously, immediately going over.

His eyes are glazed over, his head leaned back against the wall. “Louis,” he smiles dreamily, once he’s registered his presence. “When did you get here?” he sighs.

Louis frowns. He’s _fucked_ up.

“What did you take?” he mumbles, helping him up.

Barely, Liam manages to stand, his crisp trousers now rumpled and stained. “I didn’t take anything.” But he laughs almost manically.

“Where’s Zayn?” Louis asks.

“I lost him awhile ago.” Liam frowns as Louis deposits him on a velvet couch in the corner, near a chipped wooden table and several empty glasses. “I had to go to the toilet. And then I never saw him again…”

Louis sighs, sniffing at a glass filled with clear liquid—water, thank fuck. Germs be damned, he stuffs it into Liam’s hand. He’s too drunk to realize just how foolish that is, but. It’s a pretty dark situation to begin with.

“Drink this,” he orders, and Liam does without question.

“Have you seen Harry?”

Liam nods, wiping his mouth. “He’s outside.” He tilts his head as he looks at Louis, bring his hand up to his cheek, stroking his skin, dazed. “He’s sad, you know?”

Louis’ heart jumps.

“Sad?”

“Yeah. You make him sad,” he breathes, fingers petting Louis, before closing his eyes and leaning back, his hand dropping to his side.

Fuck. The sentence hangs in Louis’ skull, his stomach writhing.

At long last, Zayn arrives.

“Fuck’s sake. I’ve been looking all over for him,” he says, brows angry, his phone clenched in his hand. “Is he all right?”

Louis nods. “Yeah. He’s just a bit unconscious.”

Zayn shakes his head, petting Liam’s hair away from his forehead. “He needs to stop,” he says quietly, but Louis isn’t sure if he’s meant to hear, so he says nothing in reply. Zayn glances over to him. ”Thanks for looking after him. I’ve got it from here, though.”

Louis nods, giving Liam one last long look.

Zayn glances at him. “Harry’s outside.”

His eyes snap to Zayn reflexively.

“Liam said.”

There’s a heavy pause, filled only with the music that has swallowed them whole, beating, beating, beating.

“Talk to him,” is all Zayn says in that satin voice, and Louis nods.

“I’m going to. Text me, all right? Let me know how Liam’s doing.”

Zayn nods, bumping his fist with Louis’, before Louis finds the exit and leaves.

The air outside is freezing yet refreshing after the sweaty humidity of the club, so Louis sighs in relief, letting his flesh absorb the cold and dry his sweat. He’s just about to get out his phone to text Harry, when he hears a scuffle behind him, the peppered sound of angry voices.

Familiar angry voices.

Louis turns around.

It’s Harry. And it’s Niall.

“I fucking told you, I’m just fucking looking for him to see if he’s all right! He fucking disappeared, what do you fucking expect me to do?!” Niall spits, and he’s livid, absolutely livid, bright and glistening and terrifying, his blue eyes like ice picks, ready to slice flesh.

Louis has never seen him like this.

“And why the fuck are you looking for him?” Harry growls, shoving him, his long, shadowy body crowding in on Niall.

What the hell?

“He went missing, you cunt, I’m looking after him. Because, you know, he’s my mate? You have a lot of fucking nerve after the way you treat him—“

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You don’t own the bloody kid!”

“Well, neither do you!” Harry snarls, and looms over Niall threateningly, teeth bared. “So just stop!”

But Niall has never looked less afraid in his life. “What the fuck has gotten into you?” he asks in disgust, shoulders squared. “I thought we were mates, yeah? What the fuck?”

Harry is blinking rapidly (blinking back tears?), his face contorted into a fierce scowl, his hands fisted and shaking at his sides. He ignores the question. “Why do you care where he’s at? What were you doing in there?” he demands, almost frantic and desperate, words wet with threatened anguish. He's like a cornered animal. In so many ways.

“He’s one of my fucking best mates, fuck sake,” Niall cries, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Why is this such a fucking issue?! I actually care about him. Unlike you, you goddamn selfish cunt. You make him miserable, you know that? You—“

But then Harry moves forward, ready to strike.

“STOP!” Louis shouts, panicked and quick, rushing forward to catch hold of Harry’s arm.

Niall’s pupils are blown, adrenaline flowing through him, ready to fight, but one look from Louis keeps him at bay.

He doesn’t release Harry’s arm.

“What are you doing?!” he asks, alarmed.

Harry won’t look at him. “Leave me alone.”

“Harry—“

“I’m fucking leaving—leave me alone!” he shouts, actually proper crying now, tears and everything, and he rips his arm away from Louis, stalking off into the night. The very portrait of an erratic, wilted mess. 

Louis makes to run after him—his whole body is being torn apart, cell by cell—but Niall grabs him.

“Let him go. Something’s wrong with him. Something’s seriously fucking wrong with him.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Niall. Let me talk to him.”

One cold, terrifying look from Niall silences him.

“Louis. Mate,” he says, voice low. “Sort it out later. When he’s sober. He’s fucked up right now—on who knows what the fuck—and he’s not in his right mind. Did you see the size of his fuckin’ pupils? He’s fucking blasted, probably doesn’t even know what’s real and what’s not. He could be dangerous—“

“Harry’s not dangerous,” Louis interjects firmly.

“He could be dangerous,” Niall continues anyway, patiently, “Just like anybody else would be if they were high off their fucking arse. And whatever needs to be said now can wait until the morning. Got it?”

It takes a solid forty-seven seconds for Louis to begrudgingly agree.

“Fine. But I’m visiting him first thing in the morning.”

“First thing,” Niall agrees, releasing Louis. “Just not now.”

Louis nods, allowing himself to be walked back inside, feeling like his heart’s been dragged into the dark.

**

Waking up to the sound of a piano being thundered on is something Louis barely registers anymore. He’s almost thankful, even, that he has such a reliable alarm clock.

“I’m going to Harry’s. I’m going to talk to him,” is how he greets Niall, emerging from his bedroom already dressed, wearing bags under his eyes and stress lines. And very comfortable socks.

“He beat you to the punch,” Niall says, tinkling out some Chopin. His sweatpants are pushed up to his knees and he has an enormous football jersey on. A glass of brandy sits atop the piano, as does a half-smoked cigar and a pile of chocolate bars.

“What?” Louis asks, stopping in his mission to find his other shoe. He stares at Niall. “What do you mean?”

He motions to the counter.

“Have a look.”

Utterly confused, Louis makes his way over to the kitchen, finding a neatly written note, folded over and sitting atop the counter.

 _Louis Tomlinson_ , it reads.

He opens it.

_Meet me for lunch at the gardens._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry_

Louis beams.

“Well then,” he smiles, looking up at Niall.

Niall smirks. “He came by to apologize as well.”

Louis’ heart lifts. “Yeah?”

Niall nods. “I forgave him—he’s a good lad. Just…a bit fucked, innit?” He looks over at Louis, fingers dancing upon the keys. “How much did you hear? Last night?”

Ah.

Stuffing his feet into his shoes, Louis shrugs. “A bit.”

“Do you know what it was about?”

And no. Louis doesn’t really know. He knows _he_ had something to do with it but… That’s about it.

“Not really, no.”

Niall nods, but doesn’t say anything more.

And normally that would absolutely not fly, but Louis needs to meet Harry for lunch and all he wants to do is see Harry, so he lets it rest (for the time being) and stuffs on his jacket, pressing a kiss to Niall’s temple.

“See you in a bit, Trouble,” he sings, making for the door.

“Have fun with the husband,” Niall smiles.

Louis refuses to react as he shuts the door. Even if his stomach does fizzle a little bit.

**

He sees Harry standing by the ice-encrusted fountain, near gates twined with dead ivy and tiny beds of frost. He’s wearing his long black jacket, a purple sweater, and powder gray trousers that leave nothing for the imagination, his long feet stuffed in sleek boots. A tiny flower is pinned to his sweater—which should be hokey but is somehow poetic, the fucker—and atop his tumbling curls is a timberwolf fedora, dressed in lilac silk.

Really, he should look ridiculous. But Louis finds that he wants to paint him. With colors and textures that haven’t even been invented.

Harry watches him approach, his face even and smooth, his green eyes hurling the winter into summer.

“Louis,” he nods, hands stuffed in the pockets of his open jacket.

“Curly,” Louis beams, the sun in his eyes. “You caught me first.”

“Caught you?” Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“I was going to find you this morning—but it looks as though you’ve found me first.”  He smiles wide, brandishing the note that he’d tucked carefully in his pocket. Did he enjoy the comfort of brushing his fingers along it as he walked here? Maybe. But that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Harry stares at the note, his face…torn. But then he looks back up at Louis and his face is clear again, a cloudless sky.

“Of course. Excellent timing, then. Shall we?” he asks, gesturing for Louis to walk forth.

“We shall,” Louis smiles, and hops into step beside him as they walk.

“I thought the café around the corner would be nice,” Harry says, eyes glinting with sunlight, hands behind his back, as he walks. He’s staring straight ahead of him, eyebrows creased.

It’s all very…formal.

“Well, you’re very serious today,” Louis teases with a smile, bumping his shoulder into Harry’s.

Harry blinks, darts his eyes in Louis’ direction, but doesn’t falter. “Am I? I should hate to be serious.”

“I love being serious. Serious is important. I abhor humor and fun. Especially happiness,” Louis says conversationally, also placing his hands behind his back.

He can _feel_ Harry roll his eyes.

“You’re never serious.”

Louis chuckles. “I can be.” He looks at Harry sidelong. “I’ve been serious with you.”

Harry bites his lip but remains silent, eyes straining ahead of him.

It doesn’t take long before they’re at the café, Harry pulling out the chair for Louis and assuring him to “Get whatever you want, it’s my treat.” They order their drinks—Louis gets tea and Harry gets sparkling water (which is disgusting and Louis pointedly judges him for it)—and then they settle into silence, Harry lighting a cigarette.

“Can you smoke in here?” Louis asks, eyebrows raised.

Harry smirks. “The owner’s a good friend. I assure you, we won’t have any problems.” He cups his hands around the flame before it alights, then inhales, deep and slow, then exhales. Beautifully. Elegantly.

Louis is a bit mesmerized.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Lunch at a cafe? Any particular reason we’re doing this or am I just that good of company?” He smiles, wide and sweet, taking a sip of his tea.

“Ah. Well, actually Louis. There is a reason,” he says delicately, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette into a tiny ornate tray at his side. He glances up at him, eyes calm and slitted, his eyelashes long enough to tickle the clouds in the sky. He motions for Louis to eat as a tray of breads and jams is brought to the table, followed by a large bowl of fruit and petite fours.

It’s a bizarre lunch. But it’s all very Harry.

Louis bites into a petite four, double fists a banana and an orange.

“I’m not quite sure how to say this,” he says, velvet soft, low and deep and flowing like the ocean. He watches Louis eat, cigarette poised between his fingers, face neutral.

“Say it quickly then,” Louis suggests, offering a bit of orange to Harry, who declines.

He purses his lips.

“You know how I…go through phases?” he asks, and his eyes flash up to Louis who blinks, confused.

“Like the strawberries and the gingerbread?”

“Exactly,” Harry smiles. “Like those. Well, I’ve always been that way, you see. I become fascinated by something, immerse myself in it…and then I’m done with it. Because, you see, once I’ve adored something, once I’ve found something perfectly beautiful, it is fleeting. It will never be perfect or wonderful to me again because I’ve already experienced it, already taken everything from it that I could.”

Louis nods. That’s, maybe, the worst way in the _world_ to think about things, but he nods. Because Harry’s not finished, and this all suddenly feels…very odd. He swallows his last mouthful and sets down his food, waiting for Harry to continue, skin beginning to prickle.

“However,” Harry continues calmly, stubbing out his cigarette and setting full eyes on Louis. Full, empty eyes. Shit. “It’s not just objects that I feel that way about. I’m like that with people as well.”

Louis shifts under Harry’s gaze, feeling a cold sense of dread spread from the center of his body to every extremity and crevice.

“I find people who fascinate me. I play with them. I have fun. I enjoy them. And then?” Harry takes a sip of his sparkling water. “Then I’m done with them. I become bored. And I don’t want them around anymore.”

His eyes bore into Louis’ as he sets down his glass.

“Last night made me realize, Louis. You’re one of those people.”

Bang.

The world becomes dark.

Louis swallows. “Meaning…?” he trails off, his skin stinging. He can’t move, can’t blink. Is this seriously fucking happening?

“Meaning I’m done with you, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, calmly, efficiently, as if prattling off the day’s homework.

“You’re done with me,” Louis repeats flatly, feeling like all the air’s been drained out of him.

“I just wanted to inform you. I know we became friends—“

“You always fucking do this,” Louis grits, plucking his napkin off of his lap and flinging it harshly down on the table’s surface.

“Louis.”

“Why are you always trying to get rid of me?” he hisses, leaning forward. "Pushing me away and the sort?"

“Louis,” Harry repeats calmly. “I know what this looks like. But this isn’t me ‘pushing you away,’ this isn’t me being…whatever it is you think I am. All right? I just work differently. I’m not made to keep people in my life permanently.”

“Fuck’s sake, Harry,” Louis manages, refusing to cry out his frustrations as he scrubs a hand through his hair. What the fuck is happening? Is this real life? What the actual fuck? Must they go through this bullshit every five fucking minutes?

He feels deflated. He feels like a fucking balloon that’s been deflated. That’s how he feels.

“I am truly sorry,” Harry continues, not sounding sorry at all. “But I wanted to tell you in person. Alone.” He pauses, Louis’ steady breathing filling the silence. “You’re a good person, Louis. I’m glad to have met you. But our time’s up.” He leans forward, tries to catch Louis’ eye. “Understand?”

At that, Louis looks up into Harry’s barren, desolate eyes, filling his own with as much vehemence and frustration as he feels.

“No, I don’t fucking understand,” he growls quietly. “I don’t understand this at all. We’re mates—best mates, even—“

“I already told you we—we can’t—“ Harry stutters, looking away, his posture stiffening, eyes fluttering in discomfort.

Louis ignores him.

“Every time you’ve acted like a tit and pushed me away, I’ve come back. I’m still fucking here. I won’t leave—when will you understand that? Fuck’s sake, there’s no reason for this,” he practically snarls, wishing he could dump his tea all over Harry’s perfect fucking hair and Disney lips.

“Maybe we should have done this in private,” Harry murmurs with an exasperated sigh as a spattering of eyes begin to drift towards them.

In private? Honestly?

Louis is done. So fucking done.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” he implores, reaching for his hand. He just needs Harry to talk. He needs Harry to calm down, open up, and just _talk_. He needs to see the _real_ Harry, the real shit that swims beneath this hardened, creepy, off-putting surface of stone and cement. “What’s going on? This isn’t about me at all, is it? Where were you when you were gone? Why did you leave? What happened? Because something happened--you can't lie to me. I know something happened.”

Harry looks startled, staring as Louis wraps warm fingers around his hand, holding on firmly, gently. He looks mildly terrified and faintly panicked but Louis doesn’t care. Just holds on.

“Nothing, Louis. I’m telling you—“

“Why did you come to my flat at nearly five in the morning? Why were you in the cold? Where did you even come from? Why did you come to me, Harry? Why me?” he presses gently, but there’s a desperate edge to his voice and he prays Harry can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to scare him, doesn’t want to throw his own emotions at him.

But Harry already looks scared. Really fucking scared.

“Louis, please. I told you that, at one time, we were friends—“

“This was only two days ago.”

“We were friends,” Harry continues, voice strained, removing his hand, “but things have changed. They have, Louis. I’m sorry but I don’t want you in my life anymore.”

There’s something about the pleading in Harry’s voice. There’s something about the sincerity of his eyes—like they mean what he’s saying—that hurts Louis. That digs the words into the soft, vulnerable bits of his soul and body and leave no mercy.

“Harry,” he says, voice cracking.

And shit. Shit shit shit. He feels his eyes burning, feels a heavy, hot moisture coat the surface. He can’t fucking cry. He will not fucking cry. Louis Tomlinson does not cry. For anything--not even Harry Styles.

“You’re my best mate,” he says quietly, angrily, everything becoming blurry against his will. Fuck.

Harry swallows, pushes his chair out, his eyes dark.

“I have to go,” he manages, voice thick.

“Harry,” Louis says again, forcefully, angrily, a tear managing to escape. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Please don’t say my name,” is the last thing Louis hears Harry beg, fucking _beg,_ as he hurries out of the café, alone, cold, and dark.

Fuck.

**

It’s been six hours since Harry told Louis he doesn’t want him in his life anymore, but it feels more like a handful of minutes. Just a cluster of silent minutes that scream white noise and make Louis wish he was stoned. But instead he’s on his couch, texting Stan his despair (he tells Louis that the girls are well, his mum is even well—at least there’s some light in his dark chasm of a life) and praying for Niall to get home from rowing practice so he can just have another body in the room.

Because everything is too silent and too cold.

Basically, everything sucks.

Fortunately, it’s not long before the door bursts open.

“Ready to go out?” Niall sings, sweaty from rowing practice (how the fuck do they even have practice, Louis wants to know) and glowing with all the opportunity of a Sunday night. Which, really, shouldn’t have any opportunity.

Louis just wants to watch YouTube videos about cats and eat cheese.  _That_ sounds like opportunity.

“I’m never leaving the flat again, Niall,” he mumbles, staring at the ceiling. He feels sick.

“What’s wrong?” Niall asks, peering over the couch at him, eyebrow raised. His cheeks are pink and flushed, his blonde hair disheveled.

“Everything.”

“Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

Louis hears the sound of Niall stomping to his room, hears the sound of him kicking off his choose and shuffling for clothes.

“So we’re going out, yeah?”

“Can’t say I’m feeling up to it,” Louis says listlessly. “Sorta just want to sleep.”

“Come on, Tommo. Don’t be boring. You need to get your mind off of Harry Styles for one fucking night. Have fun!”

“Fun,” Louis repeats, the word alien to him. “Never heard of it.”

“Just come, yeah?” Niall asks, now standing at the bathroom door, towel slung over his shoulder. “Forget all this bullshit for a bit. All you do is mope about Harry lately. It’s unhealthy, I’m telling ya.”

He has a point. He absolutely has a point.

“Fine,” Louis sighs, making to sit up. “I’ll go.”

Niall makes a satisfied noise before closing the bathroom door.

And Louis sort of just wants to throw up.

**

When Niall had asked Louis to go out, Louis had assumed that he had meant just that— _Niall_ and _Louis_ go out.

He did not assume that Niall had meant they _all_ go out.

All.

Including Harry.

They arrive at a house party—on a street filled with unbelievably large, luxurious houses that have Louis doing double takes—and when Niall calls back over his shoulder, “I see them!” Louis assumes he means the hosts of the party.

Not Zayn, Liam, and…Harry.

Louis almost vomits instantly.

Harry looks to be in a similar predicament.

“Niall,” Louis grits under his breath, pulling the boy’s ear to his mouth. “You failed to mention that _he_ would be here.”

“Who?” Niall asks, confused.

Wow. Just wow.

“Harry, you fuck,” he snaps.

“Oh. Well. Zayn asked him to come. But you can still have fun, yeah?” he reasons, laughing his guilt away.

Louis stares at Harry—who’s got a boy on each arm and is now refusing to look at Louis, his smile bright—and mulls the word over in his head, the idea seeming more and more comical.

“It’s gonna be a great night,” he says sarcastically.

“Want a drink?” Zayn asks while simultaneously offering him a cigarette.

“Yes and yes,” Louis says, hastily placing the cigarette in his mouth as Liam flicks a lighter on and Zayn passes him a cup of something that’s literally just appeared out of nowhere.

“Ready for a splendid night, children?” Louis asks, raising his cup in a toast, exhaling the dry smoke that fills his lungs and tastebuds.

The boys smile as they raise their glasses—even Harry, who watches calmly, indifferently. Distantly.

It hurts so fucking much. Louis hates that it hurts, that somewhere along the line all of this managed to actually hurt.

“Excellent,” he hears himself say, and drinks the whole cup in one go, closing his eyes tightly against reality and everything that hurts.

**

The entire night is a blur. It’s just a giant blur.

Louis remembers a few things…

He remembers drinking cup upon cup of that stuff that Zayn had given him.

He remembers smoking a lot of cigarettes that he bummed off of everybody in sight, batting his eyelashes when he needed a light, and wrapping his lips around the stick seductively if he wanted more.

He remembers seeing Harry, dancing in a swirl of bodies and jewelry, laughing and posing for pictures, Zayn and Liam at his side.

He remembers watching them all laugh, Niall bouncing around them and blowing smoke into people’s faces.

He remembers leaving.

Leaving because he was fucking tired and angry—so goddamn angry—and he needed to get away from them. He needed to be lost in oblivion and strangeness. He needed to be lost.

Just one night, he promised himself. One night of disappearing, of vanishing into the air. He wanted to leave them behind, leave and forget, wanted to break free from the life he had built here, and so he stumbled out the door, high as a kite, drunk as a skunk, and reeking of other people’s sweat and cologne. Reeking of loneliness. Really fucking pathetic.

He remembers seeing Harry’s face one last time—smiling charmingly at a brunette girl wearing diamonds—before slipping out the door.

He remembers walking down the street in a daze, passing body after body. He remembers a group of pretty girls surrounding him, asking his name. "You’re gorgeous,” one of them smiles, and leads him by the hand into another, different, house, tall and modern and fucking enormous.

“I’m gorgeous,” he repeats, burping, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and people dancing on platforms. Everything looks expensive. There’s smoke everywhere. Liquor everywhere. Cocaine everywhere. And a lot of sex. The kind of party Harry would love.

No.

No more Harry. He needs to forget that evil, little, life-ruining fucker.

So he drinks more and smokes and swallows whatever’s pressed into his palms and lets lipgloss lips kiss him because he needs to forget.

And then there’s a boy. A boy who’s even prettier than Pretty Boy from the night before. And Louis wants to forget. Louis wants to go back to how he used to be: fun.

Niall told him to have fun. He needs to have fun.

“Hey,” he breathes, smiling up at the boy because he needs to forget. Needs to succeed where he failed last night.

“Hi,” Boy immediately beams, surveying Louis appraisingly.

It doesn’t take long to make his intentions clear.

He remembers slurring a nonsensically drunken, “Let’s devour the world,” in Boy’s ear, drunk and dazed and desperate to distract himself, and ignoring every empty feeling inside of himself, ignoring his thoughts of Harry and the fact that he doesn’t give a fuck about this boy. Instead he digs his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, feeding off of him, stealing his breath, biting at his mouth with his own that he can't even properly feel. It’s hideous and sloppy and wet—Louis’ entire face feels like it’s fucking drenched in spit—and everything feels cold and frantic, but he drags the boy away because he needs to forget. He drags him to an abandoned, dark, blurry corner—or, rather, semi-abandoned but who gives a fuck—and wastes no time, desperate to feel anything, unzipping the boy’s jeans and claiming his offered body. He grabs and slides and uses and, in time, he gets lost in the feeling of sweat, skin, and silence.

And now he’s outside.

Outside, in the frigid air and icy breeze, stumbling around and staring at the warmly lit windows of the mansions on either side of him, cum crusted on his jeans and someone else’s vomit on his shirt. He’s fucking freezing—he’s lost his jacket somewhere, somehow. His mouth tastes like mints but he doesn’t remember chewing gum, doesn’t remember ingesting anything that tasted pleasant, so he just breathes it in, smoke still tinging his lips and tongue, sharpened by peppermint and dulled by winter.

He has no fucking idea where he’s going. He has no idea where he’s been. He hasn’t looked at his phone. It’s tucked in his back pocket, forgotten and heavy.

“Oi!” a voice shouts.

He turns around.

Two heads are smoking cigarettes on the steps of another glorious house. So many houses.

“You lost?” one asks, exhaling.

“Never lost,” Louis slurs, clunking towards them.

“You smoke?” the other asks, amused.

“Everything,” Louis breathes, and another cigarette is pressed into his mouth.

“Come inside,” they say as the world spins, and it looks warm and loud and perfect, so Louis follows.

It’s just like the other parties, the other houses. Everything’s the same. Everybody’s the same. It all blends together.

He spends the rest of the night on a couch, staring at inanimate objects that seem to have faces, mocking him and laughing as he floats, the room spinning and swirling, the stars from the night sky just out of reach.

He can’t fucking move.

He’s so fucking tired.

He’s so fucking miserable.

Eventually, he passes out, chaos swirling around him.

**

He wakes up to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around his body, hoisting him upright. The sound of music slowly fills his ears, everything’s too bright, and there are _so many_ voices.

It takes a moment to register that he’s still at the party. Wherever the fuck this party is.

He blinks awake, throat bone dry, head already pulsating as the arms drag him through the house, his legs somehow participating. He looks to the face beside him, to the body that’s supporting him, as they stumble out the door, and Louis’ eyes can barely adjust. He realizes he’s wearing a jacket when the icy breeze doesn’t lick his flesh. When he realizes that he feels warm. Where did that come from? Maybe this person gave him this jacket. He tries to focus his gaze on said person.

Curls.

Pale skin.

… Harry.

_Harry._

It’s _Harry._

But Louis is fucking drunk, is out of his fucking mind right now, and can only barely manage to slur his name.

Harry’s heaving him into a car—where did that come from?—and Louis thinks he hears his own voice chanting Harry’s name like a mantra. Harry doesn’t respond to it though, just sits beside Louis and never lets him go. He never turns to look at him, his face hard.

“You found me,” Louis eventually manages to piece together, burying his face in Harry’s neck, grabbing his shirt. “I’d thought you lost me.”

“Shh,” Harry whispers, still not looking at him but tightening his embrace.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” he mumbles, eyelids heavy as weights.

He doesn’t know if he speaks after that.

**

At some point they arrive at Louis’ flat.

Harry walks him in, practically carrying him, as Louis tries to understand what’s happening because he can’t. He feels the weight of Harry beside him. That’s all that really matters.

Silently, Harry lays Louis down on the bed, the mattress squeaking. He wants to say thank you. Maybe he does. He can’t really hear over the swimming in his ears.

The room is pitch black as he feels Harry take off his shoes, feels the blankets pulled up beneath him and lain over his body. He feels a dip in the bed and he realizes Harry’s sitting next to him. Harry’s sitting on the bed with him.

What’s going on? What’s happening? Doesn’t Harry hate Louis? Isn’t he done?

He wants to ask, wants to scream it at Harry’s face, but he can’t—can barely even stay conscious, so he just breathes, struggling to stay awake because he’s with _Harry_.

Then suddenly he feels a hand upon his forehead, brushing his hair away. It’s a soft touch, beautifully soft, and gentle. It feels incredible and soothing—like when his mum used to take care of him when he was sick, whenever she was being a proper mum—and he sighs happily, reveling in it yet not being able to process it. Harry is petting his hair.

He’s on the brink of sleep when he feels the cool brush of lips on his forehead.

It jolts him awake, jolts him into reality. Reminds him that Harry is here, that this is Harry in the dark. He tries to say his name, but it comes out as a drunken groan, an impossible noise that sounds more painful than anything.

“Shh,” Harry soothes, continuing to pet his hair.

They remain like that for awhile, until Louis’ breath evens and sleep has begun to ensnare him.

Harry must think he’s asleep. Harry must be convinced he is, because suddenly the hand stops petting his hair and moves to lie atop his heart, calm and gentle, fingers resting atop the fabric of his shirt but scarring his skin.

He must think he’s asleep when Louis suddenly feels the brief, _impossibly_ brief brush of cool lips against his own. Its spirals Louis into a black hole.

He must think he’s asleep when he whispers, “I could never forget you. I’ll always find you,” as he presses a kiss to Louis’ hand, now pressed between both of Harry’s.

The last thing Louis hears, aside from the rush of blood to his head and the hammering of his intoxicated, poisoned heart, is a whispered goodnight, and then suddenly Harry’s weight is gone.

**

Louis wakes up to a hangover from Hell and a heart that is screaming in time with his head. It rips through his brain and stomach and, within mere seconds of regaining consciousness, he’s running to the toilet, his insides rushing to burst out. He vomits everything, choking and gasping. He vomits and vomits, his body poisoned, and he feels weak and tired. Brittle, like tissue paper.

He vomits until he can’t anymore, his throat raw, his eyes tearing, and then suddenly he’s sobbing. Just fucking sobbing, bent over the toilet, with sick on his mouth and shirt, forehead sweaty and hair greasy.

It’s probably, most definitely, the most pathetic moment of his life.

He remains that way, clutching the toilet as his tears dry, wondering.

Wondering just how the fuck he managed to fall in love with Harry fucking Styles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heylo, darilngs!
> 
> So. This chappa. I think this is the last of the painful stuff--mostly, at least. It was a necessary evil, tho. I have a lot of mixed feelings about it, tbqh... I hope it was decent, tho. <3 
> 
> So this is an Arctic Monkeys chapter, and I hiiiighly suggest you listen to these songs because they absolutely inspired the shit outta this whole part. I only begin writing chapters with a vague idea of what I want to do--it's the songs that inspire a lot of imagery and tone. 
> 
> So, the main song for this chappa is "505" by Arctic Monkeys. It's a glorious tune. It will enrich your life.  
> The song for the club is "Pretty Visitors" by Arctic Monkeys. You MUST listen to that. That is the whole club scene.  
> The song for Louis' drunken, drugged, mistake night of misery and wandering is "Why Do You Only Call Me When You're High?" 
> 
> Thank you again for your beauty! I'm mesmerized by you all! Tumblr @ me (mizzwilde) if you have questions or concerns or just want to discuss the merits of fresh flowers. Or, ya know, just how pretty Louis Tomlinson is. I'll discuss all these things.


	30. XXIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis gets a visitor.

Louis awakens to a spinning bathroom ceiling and a cup of water being brandished in his face.

“Hey, you all right?” Niall’s uneasy voice materializes from the ringing silence, hand on Louis’ shoulder.

And where did he come from? What is air? What are people? Is he even alive?

Louis rubs at his crusty eyes, suddenly all too aware of the cold tile of the bathroom floor jutting into his joints. His neck is stiff and his shirt stinks of vomit and, yep, the bathroom is still spinning.

“Nnguh,” is the sound that he produces as he reaches blindly for Niall, limbs heavy and everything feeling like cold death.

Carefully, Niall helps him sit up, grip strong and supportive, an anxious edge to his brow. Miraculously, Louis does not projectile vomit.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis rasps, bleary eyed, grabbing the cup of water still in Niall’s grip and guzzling it, spilling it over the sides and feeling it dribble down his cheeks and neck. But he really couldn’t give less of a fuck right now because his throat is on fire and his body feels like a crispy, shriveled shell. So does his soul, for that matter.

“You hit it a bit too hard last night?” Niall asks, staring at him steadily. He’s got his phone in his hand, kneeling patiently in his hoodie and track pants.  He looks so clean and healthy.

Louis hates him for it.

“You could say that.”

In all honesty, Louis doesn’t even know how to begin thinking about last night—the simultaneously best and worst night of his life. Mostly worst.

And then he hears the echo of Harry’s voice, whispered in the dark. Can feel his lips shocking his body into life. His perfect, soft lips that lit everything on _fire_. Can feel the warmth of his weight next to him and—oh god—how he _kissed his hand_. And—

No, scratch it all. It was definitely the best night of his life.

And Louis is so fucking in love.

And once again, he wants to cry.

Niall must pick up on his inner turmoil because suddenly he’s crowding closer, inspecting Louis’ face and strengthening his hold on his shoulder.

“Tommo?”

“I’m in love with Harry Styles,” Louis blurts pathetically, burying his face in his sweaty hands. And, nope, he did not intend on telling this to Niall but fuck, his defenses are down and his stomach may or may not contain an army of poisonous insects gnawing on his intestines and his fucking throat and head are pounding in synch—he’s only human, after all.

Anxiously, he peers at Niall from between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Niall replies, as if it’s just a detail. As if that’s not fucking huge. As if that’s not the reason Louis’ world is currently undergoing the apocalypse.

He lifts his head, glaring. “What do you mean ‘yeah’? That is huge fucking news, you bloody potato.”

Niall snorts, shaking his head as he begins dragging Louis up from the bathroom floor. “Hardly. I have eyes, you know. And ears. And this lumpy thing called a brain.”

“That’s not your brain, that’s your dick,” Louis burps, feeling his stomach churn and, oh shit, he’s still so thirsty and so sick and sort of hungry? And maybe cold but also hot?

A barking laugh escapes Niall as he guides Louis to the couch, his phone digging into Louis’ side, before depositing him unceremoniously down onto it. “You are so weird.”

“I’m hungover as fuck and utterly heartbroken. I’m allowed to be as weird as I want,” Louis groans, immediately wrapping himself up in blankets and shutting his eyes from the sunlight that is _too much_.

Niall shakes his head, glancing once at the phone in his hand before smoothing his features and sighing.

“Well then, go on,” he says, taking a seat at the end of the couch, settling Louis’ feet onto his lap. “What happened? Talk to me and then… Then I have to talk to you.”

Louis peers at him from beneath the arm he’s just slung over his eyes. “Why do you need to talk to me?” he asks suspiciously.

Instantly Niall’s demeanor changes as he shifts uncomfortably, refusing to meet Louis’ gaze. His grip on his phone tightens and he knocks it against his knee unconsciously.

Something’s wrong. Yay.

If Louis currently didn’t feel like a medieval sewage system, he would absolutely be consumed with worry and weariness. Maybe even be somewhere near livid or hysterical, given the fact that Niall never worries or hesitates or _feels_ whatsoever, so whatever’s gotten his panties in a twist must be significant.

As is though, he just closes his eyes and swallows down some bile.

“You first,” Niall says, clearing his throat. “Where did you and Harry get to last night? What happened? Why’d you two leave?”

“I didn’t go anywhere with Harry, you twat,” he croaks. “I left on me own! I swear, you are the most oblivious, self-centered—“

“You most definitely left with Harry,” Niall says, looking at Louis as if he’s crazy.

He quirks an eyebrow. “I think I would know.”

“Would you?” Niall counters. “Your current state suggests you were pretty fucked up.”

Louis sighs, too tired to for this, wreaking too much of regret for this. “Ireland. I’m positive I didn’t leave with Harry. I think you’re the one that was fucked up.”

“Right. Well. I guess since he left the same time you did, I just assumed.” He shrugs.

And that sparks Louis.

Left the same time Louis did?

“He left?”

“Yeah. When you did. Followed you right out the door,” Niall says as if it’s obvious, tapping his phone against the armrest of the couch.

“He _what?_ ” Louis asks faintly, bewildered.

Almost immediately the wheels begin turning. Harry followed him out the door? Harry followed him? Harry?

“Yeah. He was keeping an eye on you all night. I figured you two had plans or summat since you’re, like, dating or whatever.”

“We’re not dating,” Louis says hollowly, head spinning.

Harry followed him?

Did he follow him the whole fucking night? Is that why…

Is that why he was there? Why he found him?

Oh god.

“You’re not?” Niall’s surprised voice interrupts, his cornflower blue eyes wide and cloudless. “But…didn’t he stay here the other night? And you went to lunch and—“

“We’re not dating. I’m in love with him. But we’re not dating. Don’t rub it in any more, Niall. I’m already in a very dark place.”

And fuck, Louis is reeling.

Harry _followed_ him when he left. Harry followed him the whole fucking night. He saw. He saw Louis stumbling around and sticking his tongue down how many peoples’ throats? He saw him with _that guy_. He saw him drooling and drugged up and vomiting and maybe even crying, for fuck’s sake. He followed him.

The whole night.

A small smile escapes Niall as he rolls his eyes, phone still tapping the armrest. “You’re always in a dark place.”

“This is the darkest it’s ever been.” He swallows, feeling the hollows of his heart. “Niall. …I honestly have no idea what to do.”

There’s a heavy silence, filled only with the throbbing of Louis’ veins and heart and soul, students laughing as they pass by their windows, chiffon glinting in the morning sun. Everything’s too bright.

“Fuck, Lou,” Niall suddenly curses under his breath, wincing. And the words are agitated, filled with emotion. Filled with…a lot more than the situation merits, coming from Niall.

Louis looks up, startled, only to see Niall rubbing a hand over his face, the knuckles wrapped around his phone now white.

“What is it? What’s going on?” he asks cautiously, feeling his heart picking up pace in a new way because he didn’t realize until now how _off_ Niall is. Instinctively, his mind drifts to Harry. Something’s wrong with Harry. Something’s wrong and Niall knows.

Niall stares at him for a long moment before he finally opens his mouth, seeming hesitant. Something Niall never is.

Louis feels sick. (Well. More sick.)

“Listen. Lou.” And his voice already sounds wrong. Louis swallows. “I know there’s a lot of shit going on with you right now. And I’m sorry everything’s so fucked up and you’ve had a bad morning and you’re upset with everything going on with Harry... But.” He sighs, turning to face Louis, eyes guilty. “I’m gonna need you to forget about all that for the day because there’s…another issue.”

Louis blinks.

Wait. This isn’t about Harry? For once in his life there’s an issue that isn’t about Harry Styles? He almost feels relieved. Almost.

“What is it?” he asks tentatively, mind whirring. And then—“Oh fuck. I’ve missed me lectures, haven’t I? Fuck, that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Am I expelled? I fucked it all up, haven’t I? I’ve been a shit student this term. I’ve got good marks though. They can’t throw me out if I’ve got good marks!”

“No, no, it’s nothing to do with that,” Niall says carefully and somehow that makes Louis only more terrified, because Niall is watching him so _intently_. He pauses, searching for the right words. Which is very significant because this is _Niall_. Brash, unapologetic, blunt Niall.

Louis is petrified.

“Your mum called this morning.”

Louis’ jaw twists, just barely. “Surprise.”

“Yeah. We’ve been…well, we’ve been talking quite a bit lately.”

“Weird.”

Niall laughs, shaky. It sends another terrified spike through Louis.

“Yeah,” he replies, emptily. “But, see. She didn’t know how to tell you. She’s been asking me to because…well, we’re mates, you and I. And she thought you’d rather chat with me about it—“

“Chat about what exactly?” Louis asks, heart positively pounding, as he sits up. “Niall.”

“She’s being asking me advice for a week now, but. Then this morning she called and… And all she could do was warn us, really. Because _he_ didn’t give _her_ any warning.”

“Who? Warn us about what?” Louis’ voice is sharp, his eyes spearing Niall with all the intensity that now hums beneath his skin.

At that, Niall sighs, hanging his head and closing his eyes. His shoulders are tense, his hands are clenched and pale and taught and his whole demeanor is anything but Niall. It’s horrible, really. And it should make Louis sympathize but all it does is make him _angrier_.

“Spit it the fuck out,” he practically growls, sitting up even straighter, because how is it fair that this involves him yet _Niall_ knows, of all people? That his mum went to _Niall_?

“Your father’s coming,” is all he says, rubbing the pad of his finger over the surface of his polished Rolex, now carefully avoiding Louis’ gaze.

And whoosh. All the air leaves the planet Earth. Louis’ stomach feels like it’s been kicked by Hercules.

His…father? The invisible one? The one he hasn’t seen or spoken to in _years?_

“What?” he manages to utter.

Niall looks up, pained. “Your mum called this morning. He called her, said he was on his way—“

“On his way?!” Louis bellows, feeling a cold sweat prickle. What the actual fuck? Is he on a reality show?

Niall rushes on. “He didn’t give her a choice, he just told her to tell you so you would expect him—“

“Expect him?! I barely even remember what he looks like, Niall! He hasn’t talked to me in years! How the fuck do I expect him?? What do I do?!” Louis belts, and he can barely even think because _what?_

This is bizarre. Everything’s bizarre.

“Listen,” Niall says, firmly. “I know this is fucked up. But I’ll be here. I won’t leave, I promise, and I have no problem asking him to leave—“

And Louis appreciates that, he really does. Somewhere deep inside Niall’s words warm him. But right now…he’s in for the kill.

So he rounds on Niall.

“And just why the fuck were you and my mum discussing this for a week and yet never bothered to tell me?!” he snaps, kicking the blankets off of his body. “What kind of fucking mother tells her son’s _flatmate_ that his father—who doesn’t speak to him, refuses to _see_ him, even—is suddenly deciding to stop by for tea?!”

“I doubt he wants tea.”

“What kind of fucked up situation is this?!” Louis plows on, ignoring him. “What kind of person is she?! Fucking horrible! My own fucking _mum_ can’t tell me—“

“She didn’t know how, Louis,” Niall argues, voice now hard. “She’s trying, all right? She just needs a bit of time to sort things out, yeah? I’ve been helping her, though. She calls me up and she has a chat and I listen—it’s helping, mate, it really is.”

Louis’ stomach releases fire. “She wants you as her son, does she? You’re her little pet?” he taunts coldly.

Niall’s eyes narrow. “She never said that. And _no_. She just needs to sort her shit out and I’m not biased like you—I haven’t gone through the shit you have and so I can approach it differently, yeah? You’re so fucking angry at her that you don’t even acknowledge her existence and, yeah, you have a right to be. But fuck, how is she supposed to get better if you won’t fuckin’ let her?”

Louis swallows, getting up off the couch and turning away from Niall’s clear blue eyes, from his strength of presence and unwavering voice.

It’s all too much.

This is too much.

Why are they even talking about this?

“She knows she’s been shit,” Niall continues, louder, not letting Louis escape. “But she’s trying. And she’s been doing better. The girls are happier—“

“Don’t talk about my sisters like you know them,” Louis snaps.

“Are you not listening to me, you fucking cunt?” And Niall’s claws are exposed, his dragon’s eyes glinting with fire. “Your _sisters_ are _happier_. That’s what matters. Your mum’s finally getting her head out of her arse and stepping up and even your best mate has stopped coming around less because he doesn’t have to. Fuckin’—just—just fuckin’ focus on what’s good about that, all right?”

“Why are you even involved in this?” Louis suddenly asks, whirring around. His blood feels like molten lava spilling down the craters of a freshly burst volcano. (Yes.) “What’s this to do with you?”

Niall sighs, barely disguising his roll of the eyes. “I care, all right?”

And that just makes Louis laugh, cold and twisted. “Care? Have you ever actually _met_ anyone in my family? How can you care about people that you don’t even know?”

“I’ve met your mother. Obviously,” Niall barks, frustrated. “It doesn’t matter though, does it? I care because I care about _you._ So stop being a stroppy cunt and just…focus on the issue here? Your father?”

Louis huffs.

Why does Niall sound so fucking smart? Niall, who sings Spongebob songs at the piano in his boxers, whose favorite past time is seeing how many crisps he can shove into his mouth, who cradles his bowl in his palm like a baby while he insists that homework is all a conspiracy.

Louis closes his eyes, presses the palms of his hands into his sockets.

It’s all too much.

He sighs.

“Why’s he coming?” Louis asks in a defeated almost-whisper, forcing himself to focus. To find inner serenity.

Niall relaxes, his eyes calming. “He wants to see how you’re doing in school.”

“Don’t know why he suddenly cares.” He glares. “Oh, wait. Yes I do. Because he’s paying for it. And it’s his reputation on the line.” He shakes his head, already so disgusted at just the _prospect_ of Charles. How is he going to speak to him? To look at him?

That quiets Niall.

“I’m sorry, Tommo,” he finally replies, quietly.

Louis opens his eyes, settling his gaze upon Niall. He looks quiet. Quiet and so openly sad and so unlike everything that he’s built of, that Louis feels his anger dissipate, his panic numb itself. It’s just him and Niall in that moment and, really, he feels touched in a way. Touched that bright, shining Niall is here right now, worried, unsettled, concerned for Louis.

“It’s really not your fault,” he sighs, sliding his hands in the pockets of the soiled jeans he’s still wearing from the night before. He looks a mess. “Honestly. I’m just trying to figure out how this day became so shitty so fast.”

They exchange small smiles.

And then suddenly there’s a knock at the door.

Fuck.

As one, their eyes flick to the sound. And Louis can’t breathe. Because oh. _Fuck_. He hasn’t seen his father in years. _Years._ And he doesn’t even know what he could possibly say to him that isn’t along the lines of “Fuck off” or “You can leave now.”

But, then again, why can’t he say those things?  

Because, what, his father will stop paying for school? Because Louis will be forced to drop out and go back home, leaving this life and all his friends behind? Leaving the torrid, endless mess that is Harry Styles behind? And isn’t that what he wanted when he came here? To just go back home? Didn’t he hate this place, these people? Would it really be so bad to just…forget it all? Leave and never look back? Walk away from Harry’s quiet riddles and tucked away smiles and blowjob lips? Walk away and leave him for the sharks that are already devouring his body?

… Louis is so fucked.

“I’ll get it,” Niall suddenly says, calm and confident, already striding towards the door.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Louis nods, not knowing what to do with his hands. He looks a mess—a fucking mess—and he’s hungover and his heart is currently mangled into an unrecognizable shape because he’s only just discovered that he’s in love with Harry Styles (and, okay, maybe he’s not completely surprised, but…it’s still new, it still feels like he’s been awoken from a coma and suddenly his senses are overwhelmed by _everything_ yet he can’t even properly grasp the situation because of _this_ , because he can really only focus on one major issue at a time) and everything is just fucking awful and now. Before he’s even had brekkie or brushed his teeth, his fucking estranged father is going to waltz back into his life so he can assess Louis’ worth.

Fuck. This. Day.

Niall shoots Louis (who successfully does not shit his drawers) one last confident nod before he swings the door open and reveals—

Zayn.

Liam.

 _And Harry_.

Louis’ stomach somehow sinks lower, maybe plummets to the center of the Earth.

“Lads!” Niall chirps, utterly surprised, as evident in his saucer eyes and agape mouth. “What are you doing here?”

And now Louis _really_ wants to die. He absolutely wants one of those cartoon anvils to fall from the ceiling and crush his bones to bits because now, on top of everything _, they’ve_ shown up?! Right when Louis was mentally steeling himself for the onslaught of a father and son reunion, his _other_ life crisis is now on his doorstep?? Fucking _really??_

He can’t be near Harry right now, that poisonous blossom of mind fuckery and beauty. Can’t _look_ at him and his flower petal face. Not right now.

He tries to make his intentions clear when Niall glances back to him, completely clueless as to what to do while Zayn calmly speaks.

“We just wanted to check on Louis,” he mutters, sleek black hair cutting against the pale sky, eyes calm and sincere. He’s wrapped in a long, narrow, ebony coat with a black satin scarf twined around his neck and he looks like a modern delicacy, like he should be kept behind glass. Liam stands beside him, the collar of his gray trench coat popped high, a sleek button-up visible beneath. He looks clean and concerned, his head lightly tilted as he stares inquisitively at Niall, hand gripping Zayn’s elbow.

And oh fuck. How _embarrassing_ is this? They’ve come to check up on the hot mess that was so mentally and physically obliterated last night that he had to literally be carried by Harry and—

Oh god. Did Harry tell them all of this?

Do they know how he was barely able to say his own name? How he abandoned them all because he was a selfish, emotional prick so he could fuck some nameless bloke and suck pills out of some girl’s mouth? Is he going to have to answer their unwanted, disappointed questions and face the complete SHAME of—

“Harry told us you got sick last night,” Liam says with worry, looking past Niall and attacking Louis with his puppy’s eyes, concern etched in his strong brows. “Said you had an early night in. We just wanted to make sure you’re feeling better—you left without saying a word!”

Louis stares.

What? What did Harry say? That Louis was…sick? He lied for him?

Okay. Louis can’t help it. He has to look at him.

So he does.

Harry’s staring at him, standing behind the unit that is Zayn and Liam. He’s tucked in the background, wearing a ridiculous yellow and black striped shirt and a black fur coat, but he looks ripped from the pages of a fashion ad, shaded in grayscale and tucked in the back of a dusty scrapbook. He looks fucking timeless and perfect and like his eyelashes whisper or some shit and his face is soft like the petals of a rose and his eyes are like the green, piercing thorns that leave scars and shit fuck bastard goddamn.

Louis is in love with him. This boy. This boy standing within reach. Louis is in love with this boy.

It’s horrid.

And it’s only more horrid when Harry stares at him, quiet, careful, his face a careful composition while storms and floods thrash just beneath the surface, as evident in the flickers of his eyes and the twitch of his Grecian Tragedy lips. Barely blinking, just breathing, just eyes and just curls with a powder gray sky as a backdrop.

Louis needs to look away. Absolutely needs to look away because if his eyes convey one tenth of the adoration he feels for this boy, then he’s fucked and he’s just…not ready for that right now. Not today. Not this morning.

“I… Yeah,” he says, breaking his stare from Harry and feeling flooded. And yet dehydrated because he’s so fucking _hungover._ “I got sick.”

Niall’s watching him now, completely at a loss and, most likely, afraid to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing.

Zayn’s eyes flicker between them. “Something wrong?” he asks smoothly, and it’s not a question. It never is with Zayn.

“Er. Maybe now’s not a good time for visiting,” Niall says, clapping a hand to Zayn’s shoulder as Louis turns his back on them, walking deeper into the apartment.

Louis sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, through his greasy hair.

“What’s wrong with Louis?” Liam asks, almost panicked. “Louis?”

“Nothing, mate. He’s just… Family’s coming. On their way now. For a visit,” Niall supplies, and Louis can feel the stares on his back.

“His mum?” Liam asks. “I thought they didn’t get on. She doesn’t like him or whatever.” Oh, Liam.

“Er, no, not that parent,” Niall says, and he sounds so incredibly uncomfortable that this would be hilarious in any other situation.

“His father?” Liam then surmises with incredulity and Louis sort of really wants to pelt them all with rocks.

“Well—“

“Is he all right?” Zayn asks, his liquid voice laced with an edge of concern.

And then suddenly the voices drop and the mumblings begin. Which sort of sets Louis’ teeth on edge.

One glance back reveals Zayn’s snakelike, inspecting eyes as he mutters with Niall, Liam’s wide, concerned (or is it pitying?) eyes set on Zayn in watchful caution. Niall’s muttering in low tones to them, his back a little more taught than usual, his foot jiggling as he continues to hold the door open, knuckles white.

But worse than that is Harry. Who is still staring. Just staring.

And Louis refuses to stare back.

“All right, lads. Hush your whispers,” he suddenly announces, turning around and making his way back to them. He won’t look at Harry, won’t let them whisper about him when he’s in the same fucking room, won’t let any of this affect him, _won’t look at Harry_. Harry who he’s in love with. Fuck. “Yes, my father is coming. No, I haven’t seen him since…I don’t remember when. So today’s an exciting day. But I think I best put on some clean trousers and just plunge head first into it, yeah? Now, you’re welcome to stay, of course,”—he prays they won’t stay—why would they stay?—“but I’m going to be terrible company. Thank you for coming, I appreciate you lads. Best mates I could ask for, really.” He grins, hoping his smile is unaffected and his demeanor relaxed.

But, of course, Zayn sees right through him.

“You don’t have to pretend, Louis,” he mutters, lidded eyes cutting through Louis’ soul on a tidal wave of eyelashes. “And we can leave, if you like. No fuss.”

Louis blinks.

“Or we can stay!” Liam offers, hopeful.

Harry remains silent, not even moving a muscle.

At a loss, Louis looks to Niall. Because what should he do? He wants them here, wants the comforts of his friends, he does. But is it selfish? To pull them into this mess of a situation? And worse yet, there’s Harry—who he can’t even look at it because he’s afraid he might do something insane like kiss his palms or tuck his curls behind his ears while he smells his neck.

Niall stares back with wide, vacant eyes. He raises his hands in surrender. “This is out of my league, man. Your call.”

Another moment of silence passes, with Zayn gently studying Louis, Liam glancing between the two worriedly, and Harry never blinking.

He has no idea what to do.

“ _I_ can leave if you’d prefer,” comes Harry’s quiet voice, out of the blue.

As one, all eyes turn to him, Zayn and Liam craning their necks in surprise. Harry’s eyes never leave Louis, though. Sad, cautious, imploring. It physically hurts to keep his gaze.

“No,” Louis finds himself responding almost automatically. Because, no, he really doesn’t want Harry to leave. Sure, it hurts to be around him. But the idea of him leaving? It hurts more. “Stay. _Please_ ,” he emphasizes, and all the worry, the panic, and distance in Harry’s eyes part, leaving way for a softness that splinters Louis’ fucking soul.

There’s so much unsaid between them. So much. And all they can do is stare.

“Come on in, then,” Niall barks happily, stepping back, interrupting Louis out of his reverie.

Feeling pins and needles pricking his entire body, he sighs, making his way back to the window as the lads settle onto the couches and chairs, Niall already pouring them glasses of probably-whiskey and offering them croissants and weed. Louis stands close to the windowpanes, needing the warmth of the sun. Wants to watch the courtyard as students mill about and scuttle to their next class, some wearing robes, some wearing YSL. All with their simple smiles and simple lives…

Louis sighs, bowing his head.

“You want anything to drink, Tommo?” Niall’s asking just as there’s another knock at the door.

And the entire room quiets.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, eyes going blank as he lifts his head, gazing out the clean glass windows.

“Fuck,” Niall agrees in a low whistle, sounding absolutely terrified.

There’s a moment of silence, just one moment, and then he hears Niall stand, shuffle to the door, open it, and then…

“Hello,” a distantly familiar voice greets.

Charles.

It’s him.

It’s actually…him.

Louis’ mouth is sour. His whole body is sour, smelling of last night and drenched in despair. Goddammit.

“Hello, sir,” Niall’s business-voice smiles. “Can I help you?”

The room feels frigid, frighteningly tense.

“Yes. Does Louis Tomlinson live here?”

The voice is deep, almost gruff, and strong. It brings back little, watery memories. Of Charles asking Louis to leave the room. Of Charles asking Louis why he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Of Charles always on the phone with a client, brushing everybody else away with a careless flick of the hand.

Louis’ eyes shut as his fist clenches so tight, he’s almost convinced he’s produced a diamond, nails slicing the cushion of his palm.

“Yes, sir. He’s me flatmate,” Niall replies, so sunny and open and everything opposite of the man standing before him.

“Flatmate, you say?” Charles asks, serious and calm. “And you are?”

“Niall Horan.”

Louis can almost hear them shaking hands.

“Son of Jonathan Horan?”

“The one and only, sir.”

A short laugh.

“Good lad,” Charles says.

Louis grits his teeth.

He hears the door shut, the scuff of polished shoes against their impeccable wooden floors. Hears the squeak of furniture as the boys stand.

“And you all are…?”

It’s so weird. It’s so fucking weird.

“Zayn Malik, sir. Son of Khan Malik,” comes the even flow of Zayn’s voice, and he just _sounds_ impressive. Without even trying.

“Khan Malik, you say? The chancellor of the school?” Charles asks, surprised and delighted.

There’s a silence, and Louis can picture the scene behind him—Zayn nodding silently, standing tall and open and beautiful like the fucking Greek statue that he is.

“And I’m Liam Payne,” Liam announces, voice lilted to its posh timbre of sparkling perfection. Business Liam is in full gear. “My father is William Payne. I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”

“Ah, yes, yes. Bill. Good man. Did a case for his company a couple years back. He’s doing well?”

“He is,” Liam smiles. “Really well. I’ll send him your regards. I could set up a luncheon?”

“Yes, of course,” Charles says, clearly impressed.

And Louis just feels so tense. Has the man even noticed he’s in the room yet? He can’t turn around to see. Not when he’s still not sure how he’s even going to react. No, Charles can come to him.

“And who might you be?” Charles suddenly asks, and Louis freezes, completely freezes, but then—

“Harold Styles,” Harry suddenly announces in his most charming of voices, and Louis can envision the infectious grin he’s got plastered onto his face. He’s also got his feathers on display, any trace of concern and trepidation gone and leaving only a winning smile and firm—but not too firm—handshake.

“Styles, eh?” Charles assesses. He doesn’t sound as impressed.

“Styles,” Harry confirms. “And you are, of course…?”

“Charles Tomlinson,” the man says. And something about hearing that name, hearing that name spoken by that man… A man that’s been all but a phantom in Louis’ a life, just makes everything that much more _real_.

Fuck. This is actually happening.

Louis still can’t turn around.

“What a remarkable name,” Harry smiles. “I’d steal it for my own, but I don’t think I could do it justice.”

“Perhaps.” The tone is cold.

“You’re Louis’ father, then?” Harry continues, unaffected.

Louis bites his cheek.

“I am. Is he here?”

And Louis tries not to roll his eyes. Because _really?_ They’re within arm’s length, for fuck’s sake.

“Um, he’s just beside you, actually,” Harry purrs, but his voice is…almost sharp? “If you just turn around, of course.”

And Louis braces himself as he hears the shuffle of feet behind him.

“Ah. Louis.” The man’s voice couldn’t sound any less thrilled.

“Ah. Charles.” Louis turns around. “Long time, no see,” he continues, taking in the man’s appearance which has changed so little—his eyes still sharp and his hair still speckled with gray, his suit still pristine and his jaw still set. Louis doesn’t even bother painting on a smile, very aware of everyone’s eyes on him. Very aware of Harry, whose face has returned to quiet and concerned as he searches Louis’ face.

Charles nods once, lips slightly pursed, his light brown hair glowing golden under the crystal lights and sun. It’s so odd to be in the same room as him, as if nothing’s changed and no time has passed. It’s all just so fucking odd. Louis feels as though he’s dreaming. And he could be, to be honest. This could be one long hungover hallucination. Hopefully it is.  

“I presume your mother has told you why I’m here?” Charles asks, straight to business. As usual.

Fuck, it’s been _so long_.

“Naturally,” Louis continues, folding his arms. “You’re here to make sure you’re not wasting your money.”

There’s a brief pause in which all the boys stare, Liam’s eyes practically bugging out of his head. Niall’s eyebrows are raised, almost to his hairline, and Zayn’s eyes are narrowed, assessing. Harry’s brows are furrowed, his gaze now firmly locked on Charles.

“Can you blame me?” is all the man replies, tilting his head.

Louis’ blood simmers. “Not a wink, Charlie. But even so. A bit more warning would have been nice. I haven’t even had time to put out the fine china!” His voice drips with sarcasm.

Tension begins to fill the room. Liam shifts uncomfortably.

“Shall we talk somewhere more private?” Charles asks, eyes sharp.

“Splendid idea. This way,” Louis says, already mad, just _mad_ , leading Charles to his bedroom.

Niall mouths to him, ‘You okay?’

Louis nods, biting on his tongue. He hears Zayn mutter a, “We should go, Li,” before he enters his room, leaving the door cracked ajar as his father strides inside. He’s not going to shut the door. The very idea of being trapped in a room with this man is the epitome of suffering.

“So,” Charles begins, feet planted on the ground far apart, hands in the pockets of his ironed gray trousers.

“So.” Louis folds his arms, feet planted just as firmly.

He regards Louis with narrowed, calculating eyes, reluctant to praise. “You’ve made some excellent connections while you’ve been here. I’m surprised. And pleased.”

Louis snorts. “Nice to see you, too. And oh, how have I been? I’ve been wonderful, thank you for asking. And the girls? They’ve been good as well. So refreshing of you to voice your concern,” he says flatly.

Charles’ lips tighten. “Louis. That’s not why I’m here.”

Wow. Just wow.

Disgusted, Louis shakes his head, nearly incredulous at the man before him, wrapped in overpriced cloth and greed. “I don’t even remember the last time I’ve seen you,” he says, voice low. “Are we just going to pretend like that’s not a thing? No questions asked? Not even exchange a handshake? A tip of the hat?”

“I’m paying for your schooling,” Charles continues, ignoring him. “I’m spending a lot of money. I just want to be sure I’m making a good investment. Nothing more.”

Wow. _Wow_.

“Well then, you tell me,” Louis clips, standing before him and spreading his arms. “This is my life. This is me. Is it a good investment, father?”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “What are your grades, Louis?”

“What, you want me to dig out a fucking transcript? Go fish up my file. I don’t keep a record.” He’s lying. He absolutely has a record of his grades online. All the students do. But he sure as hell isn’t gonna tell _him_ that, instead jutting his jaw defiantly and never blinking as he meets Charles’ rigid gaze.  

“You have no record of your work? None whatsoever?”

“Fuck’s sake, I don’t have a fucking office, do I?”

“Language.”

“What about it?” Louis asks faux innocently.

Charles glares.

“To be quite honest, I’m not even sure why you’ve come. Just out of the blue? Just to see how I’m doing? When you could’ve called the school and saved us a lot of trouble and time?”

There’s a brief pause as Charles assesses him before he nods. “This is true. I suppose I had other motives.” He flicks his eyes around the room. “I wanted to see the kind of man you’re becoming.”

Louis nods, struggling to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Well. This is who I am. If you don’t approve, I suggest you do what you should have done in the first place—go to the secretary or whatever. Talk to them. Sort it out. Find your answers. Then decide if I’m ‘worth it’ or not.”

Another silence.

Charles stares hard.

Louis stares just as hard.

“You really haven’t changed at all since I’ve last seen you,” he finally replies, delicately. “And you were just a boy then.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis breathes, turning away.

“What are your plans, Louis? What do you plan on doing with this opportunity I’m giving you?”

This opportunity.

“Pissing it away.”

“I’m being serious.”

And Louis knows it, knows that his father wants to talk and be proper and Louis absolutely detests it, so he wanders around the room, fidgeting with everything, inspecting everything, refusing to stay still because he doesn’t want to play this game, doesn’t want to give him what he wants. And he doesn’t want to surrender.

“I’ll figure it out, won’t I?” he says offhandedly, inspecting his curtains.

“You need a career.”

“I’ll get one. I’m charming. I’ve got some smarts. I’ll be fine, Chuck.” He pokes at the handle on his wardrobe.

“I’m not going to support you financially, you know.”

“You haven’t in nearly a decade. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to. Don’t want to strain the checkbook.”

Charles’ jaw clicks. “So your plan is to be homeless, then.”

Louis sighs, inspecting the glass on his bedside table. “Listen. I’ll be fine, all right? Just fucking fine.”

“And how will that work, exactly?” he asks, beginning to follow Louis around the room. “Where will you go? What will you do? Who will speak to you?”

Louis blanks, the questions pelting at him too fast. He doesn’t like thinking about this, doesn’t want to think about this. It makes him feel…inferior. It makes him feel panicked, almost. Just uncomfortable. Incompetent. Young.

He hates this. He hates this about his father.

“Louis,” Charles says, low. Almost like a threat.

Louis ignores it.

“You’ve no right to ask me these questions. I have no reason to answer them.”

“Louis.”

“Just _go_ , for fuck’s sake,” Louis continues, voice nearing shrill. “This is fucking pointless! You drove all the way here to _look_ at me? Just go!”

“ _Louis_ ,” he says again, more insistently, and there is a definite edge, the corners of the word sharp. Sharp enough to cut at Louis at least. In places he didn’t know existed within him.

Why does he care? Why is this bothering him?

Why is his father _here??_

“I’ll be fine,” Louis says, quieter, almost to himself.

“Louis. You can’t expect the world to care about you,” Charles says as Louis stares at the space on the floor between his feet. “Not when you have so little to offer.”

And that. That pings Louis. That pings Louis so fucking much.

And he’s just starting to feel his flair wilt, his resolve crumbling, his confidence swaying unsteadily on its feet.

But then the door is pushed open.

“How fucking _dare_ you say that,” a voice practically hisses.

Louis’ head snaps up.

Harry’s in the doorway, eyes positively livid. And Louis stops breathing.

Charles whips around.

“Excuse m—“

“You have no fucking _right_ to come here and tell your own son that. You have no fucking right to do that!” Harry’s nearly shouting, his face blotchy and pink, eyes wide and glistening. It’s like he’s on fire, blazing and bright, sizzling and crisping, ready to consume the world and the sun itself.

Louis’ jaw most certainly drops.

Is this real life?

And where did he even come from? Was he at the door _listening?_

“Your son—Louis—is brilliant,” Harry continues, taking a fierce step inside, eyes churning with inner flame. His stance is adamant, impassioned, defiant. But his frame quivers ever so slightly, his breath shaky, the line of his shoulders trembling, and Louis wonders if it’s from fear or feeling as Harry plows on, never pausing for breath. “He’s genuinely _smart_ —I should know, I tutored him myself—and he can write a proper essay, yeah, and he can memorize an equation and calculate a percentage and remember all of that trite bullshit. But he’s not just intelligent with his education. He’s intelligent in every fucking manner you could conceive of. He—he _sees_ people.”

His eyes are so, so bright. Glassy and glittery. Louis can’t look away. Can’t feel. Can’t even feel his own tongue or his heartbeat or the cold floor beneath his bare feet. Can only feel Harry’s words. Can only register the shock in Charles’ speechless face.

“He understands people and he’s honest and brilliant and _good_ and he just—just _knows_. He knows _everything_.” Louis might die. Harry’s voice has become more shaky, his stance weaker. And in that moment, Louis knows it isn’t merely enraged passion that has consumed Harry—it’s terror. Harry is terrified. The fear has crystallized in his eyes. “He’s not like everybody else—everybody else is boring, they’re empty,” he practically gasps, his words breathless and jagged. His hands are quivering. “He’s _different_. _Good_. And he’s your _son_. You should be so bloody proud of him. You should—“ Harry cuts off, shaking his head, his fists clenched tight, chest heaving. “The fact that you could say that to your own family… To your son. To _Louis_. When…when you should be _honored_. When you should be thankful.” He takes a deep, shaky breath, gathering himself. “So don’t you dare tell him that he has nothing.” There’s a brief pause, Harry’s face calming into…something. Something gently painful and open and just beyond recognition. Louis’ breath hitches as Harry continues. “Not when he’s everything.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

The room falls silent, save for Harry’s impassioned breathing. And Louis’pounding heart.

The words echo within his skull and body, bouncing around his ribcage and imbedding themselves in his eardrums, probably permanently. Because….wow.

Just….. _wow_.

Was it ten hours ago that he thought Harry was rid of him? Harry, whose just stood up to his father, basically told him to fuck off, and said…said all those things, those beautiful, gorgeous things about Louis?

It’s all too much. Louis hasn’t even changed out of his clothes. He hasn’t even showered.

It’s all too much.

“You are very insolent for your age,” Charles finally says, calm and quiet, each word pointed subtly as he observes Harry with thinly veiled distaste. “This conversation has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t help but overhear your fucking mess of words and just walk away from them, _sir_ ,” Harry snaps, and this isn’t the Harry that Louis has seen in front of strangers. This isn’t the peacock that smiles wide and crooked because he can, the golden boy who quips witty comments and lures everyone in with a mere flick of the wrist. This isn’t the empty-eyed walking corpse.

This is bright, alive Harry. Fighting for Louis. Genuinely. Electrically. This is Harry. Alive. The most alive he’s ever been perhaps. Louis wants to cry.

Face hard, Charles turns back to Louis.

“I’ll go to the school’s office. I think I’ve seen enough here. You were right. I shouldn’t have come.” He begins making his way toward the door where Harry stands, tall and alight, breathing heavy, his fists finally unclenching.

Louis narrows his eyes as he watches him leave, something unexpected and painful blooming in his chest that he refuses to label. “You’ve seen nothing. You’ve come here, you’ve assumed, and you still know nothing about me,” he says loudly, voice hard.

This makes Charles halt. He inclines his head ever so slightly, eye barely visible over his firmly lined shoulder. “I’ve heard Harold’s words.”

“But you’ve not heard mine.” Louis’ face is hard, refusing to look at Harry for fear he might actually break, crumble apart. He can’t do that in front of his father. He refuses to give him that satisfaction.

Charles pauses, surveying Louis, conflict marring the cutting blue of his eyes.

“Perhaps we can attempt another meeting,” he finally says. “At another time.”He looks as if he’s about to say something more, and Louis perks, opens his ears, finding himself almost craving the unspoken words, but then nothing comes. Nothing comes, and his father leaves, brushing harshly past Harry.

Leaving Harry and Louis.

And a heart that feels so, so damaged.

“Where did the others go?” Louis asks, clearing his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly. He tries to push thoughts of his father away because, really, there’s no reason to think of him now. There’s no reason to be sad. Not after all this time. Why doesn’t his body understand that?

It’s all just too much.

“Zayn’s,” Harry says quietly, eyes sad as he watches Louis fidget, fiercely blinking back tears. “Wanted to give you some privacy.”

“I see. And what about you, then?” He tries to lift his voice, force it into clarity and nonchalance. He wants to feel casual.

Harry purses his lips, staring with wide jade eyes. “I didn’t like him.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow. “So you stayed here with him?”

Silence.

“The way you spoke to him…” Harry finally says, voice barely above a whisper. He seems dazed, shocked almost. “He’s your father. And the way you _spoke_ to him.”

“He deserved it,” Louis says, frowning.

Harry nods immediately. “He did.” And it’s almost as if something is dawning, a light clicking on behind his eyes.

There’s a heavy moment, one where Harry is somewhere else, eyes caught up in distance, and Louis feels his whole body crackling with electricity because he’s in love with Harry and, for some reason, it’s so painfully present. All the time, all of a sudden. Especially now, when his heart feels misshapen and brittle and Harry’s words still echo in the room. And there’s so much unsaid.

“But you’re okay? Today? Now?” Harry finally asks, voice scratchy and faint, his eyes refocusing.

Louis stares at him, hard, tries to search the frail eyes before him, the flushed cheeks. “I thought you were over me,” he says bluntly, and he feels his face contorting, feels it droop with sadness and all the plagues within him.

Harry closes his eyes, bows his head. “I wanted to be.” His brows pinch together tightly. Quieter, barely above a whisper, maybe to himself, he says, “I tried so hard to be.”

Louis’ ribcage might be smashed. Louis’ stomach might be disintegrating. Something horrible and lethal might be happening inside of him.

“Why?” Louis asks. “After everything you just said…”

“I meant every word.”

Louis swallows.

Too much.

“I wanted you to mean it,” he says, all that _feeling_ beginning to break free and flood his limbs. He takes a step forward and it’s almost beyond his control, what his body is doing, as he raises a hand to Harry’s cheek. He’s almost seeing white, his body fucking betraying him, his mind going haywire, but it’s like he’s under a _spell_ as he stares at Harry, his pale, cool skin so soft beneath Louis’ hot hand. “I don’t want you to get rid of me anymore, Harry.”

He shakes his bowed head, looking almost as if he’s scowling, his body relaxing under Louis’ touch. “I couldn’t if I tried. It’s too late.”

“Too late?”

Harry finally looks up, eyes glazed once more.

“You’re all right, though?” he whispers, face softening.

Louis nods, daring to brush his thumb across the smooth plane of Harry’s cheek, softening the boy’s gaze even more.

Relief pools in his eyes. “Good.” He bites his lip, looks away. “I’m sorry about your father. I know… I know how hard it can be.”

And that he does. Harry most certainly knows the hardships of a shitty father. Of a shitty family. And right now, with Louis practically spilling with unbridled emotions—emotions he hasn’t had to feel in years—and an overwhelming sense of displacement and the very real question of his self worth that has been thrust into his mind… Well. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be Harry. If these are the emotions he carries with him every day. If that’s why the option of ‘emptiness’ is so appealing and hedonism is so frantically desired.

The thought bowls Louis over and all he wants to do is grip onto him. He wants to hold the little fucker that’s imprisoned his heart, and, god. He’s in love. He’s in love with him. And fuck, he needs to calm down. He needs to be alone.

He’s so _overwhelmed_.

Luckily, it’s at that moment that Harry’s milky rumble interrupts the silence.

“I need to go,” Harry says softly, grabbing Louis’ wrist with both hands and gently removing his hand from his cheek. “I’ve…I have dinner with a professor.”

Louis nods again, feeling _so much_ that he feels nothing.

“But tomorrow evening. I’m having a small dinner. Just us lads. My rooms. You’ll come?” he asks, beginning to back towards the door, eyes distantly hopeful and set on Louis.

Louis manages a smile. “As long as you don’t tell me I’m yesterday’s news over the first course.”

Harry’ face darkens, his steps fumbling. He looks down, ashamed, light color crawling up his neck. “Louis—I know—I’m—I’m sorry—“

“I’ll come,” Louis interrupts calmly, gently, because he wasn’t trying to be a bastard, was trying to make the mood light. Harry’s just so fucking sensitive… Like a newborn kitten or a dandelion. The thought makes Louis’ chest warm.

Okay, he’s _too_ in love.

“You will?” Harry says, lifting his head. Such a clear, beautiful face. Full of innocent hope and sincerity. Worlds away from the boy he once knew.

“Always,” Louis hears his voice saying as he finds himself following Harry, as if ready to chase him down and bring him back. To keep him in his room or his bed or his arms or…just anywhere really. Just anywhere near him.

Harry smiles, that kiss of a dimple catching in the light pouring from the windows.

“Excellent. Until tomorrow, then? Yeah?” His voice is so sweet, so gentle.

Why does this hurt so much?

“Tomorrow then,” Louis promises, unable to blink, lost in the boy before him whose smile has somehow become terrifyingly arresting overnight. (Louis hates being in love. He’s never doing this again.)

The sun escapes from Harry’s lips.

“Oh, and Louis?”

Louis waits, suspended in midair.

“You were wonderful today. With your father. The way you handled it all…” He shakes his head in awe. “I could never be like you. But.” Harry laughs lightly, nervously, his head bowed and curls tumbling down from all sides as he paws at the ground with the toe of his boot. “You make me… _want_ to be. Like. You give me, like, hope, almost? You know?” And Harry actually flushes.

Louis wants to fucking pass out.

This is all too much.

And Louis opens his mouth to respond, to say _something_ , but before he can, the door clicks and Harry is gone.

And it’s all just too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finds a snow drift to collapse in* Ughhh this chapter gave me such a headache. Wowza. I ended up splitting it in two because it was just taking too long and it was so, so tedious. *rubs temples*
> 
> Anywho.
> 
> I have a simple request for this chapter. The only reason I was able to write it to a point of bearability (I really did despise this thing, no matter how much I altered this and that--it was so strange!) was because I listened to some songs that inspired me. 
> 
> 1\. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SL68EXJEAPs : Listen to this. Because this song is literally the entire chapter. It's Pink Floyd (any PF fans out there? yes?) and this is their best song, hands down. There's no singing, it's all instrumental, but there is such a story told. And if you're having trouble listening to the middle (it gets pretty chaotic which, in the story, would be the part where Charles and Louis are fighting in his room and Harry bursts in) then I def suggest jumping to the 7:00 minute mark. Because that whole last bit is what inspired the last scene between Louis and Harry and I think it's just a wonderful representation of their relationship in general. *I have a lot of feelings*
> 
> 2\. A Message by Coldplay (It inspired quite a bit of Louis/Harry interaction and feeeelings)
> 
> 3\. White Foxes by Susanne Sundfor. THANK YOU GEMS FOR TELLING ME ABOUT THIS SONG. I envisioned a lot of Harry when I heard it. I think it represents him well--the part that's buried and doesn't get seen much. Ya know? 
> 
> Anyway. Chat me up for all things! I promise I answer everybody--it may just take awhile because of life and things. But I'm quite chatty so. Come at me! <3


	31. XXX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohkayyy so there are mentions of suicide and drug use and some serious stuff, alright? It's not much, but it's there. Just wanted to let all of you know!

When Louis wakes up for lecture the next morning, he’s got one notification on his phone. A missed call from Harry at 4:03 AM.

Which is unsettling for several different reasons because Louis texted Harry repeatedly last night and received zero responses. Not that he noticed _too_ much, given that he spent the majority of it lying in Niall’s bed, ranting about love and awareness. Niall wanted to kill him.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Louis nearly shrieked when Niall began rolling off the bed, Nike’s still on his feet from when he’d put them on earlier with the intention of going out.

Niall sighed, long and suffering, rubbing his hands over his face as Louis aggressively pulled him back down beside him.

“I want to go out.”

“I’m not finished.”

“You’re never going to be at this rate. It’s nearly three in the morning!”

“Exactly! It’s far too late to go out now! So just sit tight and let me express my feelings.”

“But you have so many fucking feelings,” Niall groaned, flopping over and shoving his face in the pillow. “You’re in love with the bloke—big fucking deal! We all saw it coming. Thought you two were already fucking, to be honest—ow!” Niall rubbed his arm, throwing a glare Louis’ way. Who was most certainly glaring back.

“Stop it.” Louis sighed, settling back down, eyes finding their way to the ceiling. “It’s difficult, you cold-hearted shrew. You wouldn’t understand. It’s fucking horrible, this. Being in love and all that? It’s like…it’s like this weird quiet thing. Like, it’s so strong but it’s so quiet at the same time. And I guess I always sorta knew how I felt so it’s not, like, been a complete shock to the system, but. I don’t know. I never, like, really let myself feel it. But now that I’ve admitted it to myself I can’t stop thinking about him, Niall. And I just want to hug him and talk to him and make sure everything’s okay and fix his problems and his—his father! How’s his father?”

Niall shrugged. “Still bad. They’ve cancelled a shit ton of TV performances because he’s not able to perform live. I think he’s just locked up in his house or something. Fuckin’ loon.”

Louis closed his eyes, feeling silent stabs within his heart. Because _Harry_. Des is locked up in _Harry’s_ house. Locked in the cold, dark, ornate confines of that mansion Louis had visited so long ago…

“That stuff. That’s the stuff I want to know about. I worry so much, Niall, _so_ much. More than I’d like to, if I’m being honest. But there’s nothing I can do! And, like, there’s also the issue of: do I say anything? Do I tell him I’m in love with him? Or will I scare him away? Because I think he might… I think he might like me. A little bit, at least.”

“Of course he likes you.”

“No, I mean _really_ like me.” Louis bit his lip, still staring up at the cream colored ceiling, the way the shadows played upon the smooth surface. “The things he said to Charles this morning… I think he might care.”

“All right. So tell him you love him. You only live once.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Tell him.”

“Niall, I’m not sure—“

“Tell him.”

“Nia—“

“Tell him.”

“N—“

“Tell him.”

“Fucking stop it, you prick!” Louis glared, whacking him over the head. “It’s not that simple! I’m dealing with a timid squirrel here. I’ve got to approach him cautiously.”

“You’ve got to lure him in with your nuts?”

And when Louis looked over, Niall was laughing hysterically, silently, into his pillow, face pink and bright.

“You’re a complete idiot, do you realize that, Ireland?” But he felt his lips quirk.

“Not as much as you are,” Niall chuckled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, cheeks soft in a blushing pink. “You’ve finally realized you’re in love with Harry and you’re not even going to tell him because you’re afraid. Fuckin’ child.”

“I’m not afraid!”

“So then tell him.”

“He’s a squirrel, Niall!”

“Can I go now?”

Again, Louis glared, folding his arms across his chest and kicking a foot out, colliding it with Niall’s shin. “No. Absolutely not. You’re here for me tonight and I have a lot of shit to sort out. Now drink some water and sit back because I’ve got to start deciding whether or not to tell Harry fucking Styles I’m in love with him and whether I want everything that goes along with that.”

“Like the cat statues?”

“Like the cat statues,” Louis confirmed before sighing and laying his head atop Niall’s shoulder.

They talked for about two more hours before Niall started snoring obnoxiously in the middle of one of Louis’ soliloquies discussing the subtle differences between Harry’s amused smile and Harry’s shy smile.

So.

Louis really hasn’t slept all that much. And waking up to the knowledge that Harry called him last night—probably around the time he was insisting that his lips had the ability to unlock the secrets of the world—is more than a little jarring.

But he sets his tidal wave of nerves (or feelings or butterflies or whatever the fuck it is that’s swimming in his stomach) aside, instead focusing on waking up, getting dressed, and heading to his lectures because, even if he leaves this term gutted like a fish because of potentially unrequited love, he is going to do well. He is going to do well and he is going to succeed at this school.

Does that have something to do with Charles? No. Is he somehow, secretly, trying to prove to himself that he really is smart and will be fine in life? No. Has their meeting only reignited the fires of defiance and pride that only his own father can create within him? No.

No, Louis is independent and fine and unaffected. He just really wants good marks.

Still, though. He can’t help but think about Harry…

And he thinks he’s made his decision.

“Off to lecture?” Niall asks, pouring almost an entire box of cereal into an enormous goblet. And where did that even come from?

Louis nods, tucking the ends of his scarf into his jacket. “It’ll be a short day, though. Only two courses.”

“Cool.” Niall pours almost a gallon of soy milk into said goblet.

Louis eyes it wearily as he slides his feet into his Vans, one hand balancing him on the wall. “I’m, er, gonna tell Harry today. About, you know. The feelings.”

The carton of soy plonks down upon the bronzed granite of the counter, Niall’s eyes growing wide. “Yeah? You’re gonna grow a fuckin’ pair?”

“I myself would have phrased it better, but yes.” Louis tries to smile, his stomach careening, his cheeks stiff with cold terror. How is he doing to do this if he’s already terrified?

Niall’s expression is warm as he clunks over to Louis, throwing his cream jumper-clad arms around his body, hugging him tightly to his chest. His grin is wide and honest, shining like the sun on snow, and he smells expensive and cozy and Louis feels his stomach spike even more, but this time with affection as he smiles into Niall’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Congrats, mate,” Niall grins by his ear. “I’m proud! Real proud. I knew you’d get your head out of your arse.”

Louis’ smile scrapes against the cotton of Niall’s jumper. “Thanks, potato.”

“Oi.”

But Louis smiles wider before finally releasing him and flashing one last nervous look before heading for the door.

“Love you, Nialler.”

“Love you harder, Tommo.”

Louis barks a laugh before he shuts the door, his mind and heart already sitting in Harry’s rooms, ready to empty themselves.

Today is going to be fucking terrifying.

**

Sitting through his lectures is a little bit like medieval torture. Or maybe worse than that. Ancient Egyptian torture? Was Egyptian torture bad? Or Scandinavian torture? Or maybe Anglo-Saxon torture. Or Sparta. Sparta was fucked up.

In any case, Louis is suffering terribly.

Because he’s promised himself that he won’t stare at his phone the whole time like some sick pup, won’t text Harry that he’s coming over the second his lecture is over, won’t send him a flutter of emoticons that encompass his simultaneously fuzzy and prickly feelings that just won’t stop. He’s trying to focus on his professors and their long-winded sentences and the way their markers squeak against the whiteboards when they jot down major plot points in _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and the significance of citation. But try as he might to focus, his brain never really leaves his phone.

Which is currently sitting in the left pocket of his shoulder bag.

Totally within reach.

Which he will not touch.

He will not.

**

At long last, he’s freed from his inner turmoil. He’s free, and the first thing he does as he emerges into the bright, wintry daylight is unlock his phone and there—there, sat right in his text inbox is a message from Harry.

_‘I must talk to you.’_

Louis actually stops walking as he reads it.

Must? He _must_ talk to Louis? ‘Must’ as in: ‘I cannot take being away from you, I miss your voice’ or ‘must’ as in: ‘I don’t really want to, but it’s imperative that we discuss something’. Louis needs to know.

But it’s while he’s having this tumultuous inner battle that he receives two more texts, buzzing his phone and shocking him out of his zone.

One’s from Niall: _‘Good luck, mate! Get it in!’_ Classy.

And another’s from Harry: _‘Louis’_

That’s all it says. Just… _Louis_. It just says Louis. But for reasons unknown to him, Louis suddenly has the incredible and terrible urge to clutch his phone to his chest like a teenager would a picture of their heartthrob. Which is horrific on so many accounts, number one being that he is in fact in public, surrounded by students swarming to their next lecture, laughing brightly and smoking cigarettes.

Refusing to attempt to sort out that mess of a thought process, he stuffs his phone in his pocket before practically jogging ahead, nerves going from simmering to boiling as he makes his way to Harry’s rooms, wondering how the fuck he’s going to manage spilling his undying love.

And, maybe, possibly, sort of wondering if Harry could be planning on doing the same.

**

He walks in without knocking, his heart pounding in his throat in the most uncomfortable and pressing manner imaginable.

“Harry?” he finds himself almost shouting eagerly, breathlessly, as he enters, dropping his bag in his chair and searching the room with bright eyes until he comes across—

Harry. At his desk. Wearing a satin suit and polka dotted bow tie, a powder blue flower pinned to his lapel. Bottle of wine sat next to him. And his head in his hands. Looking…obliterated out of his mind.

Louis’ lights immediately go out.

Oh. So it’s _this_ kind of talk.

“Harry?” he repeats, this time more tentatively, and Harry looks up, mussed and teary and bleary and…very drunk. Louis grimaces. “Oh, Harry,” he says sadly, walking forward.

“Louis,” Harry says, closing his eyes and burrowing his face in his hands. “Louis, Louis, Louis.”

He’s so incredibly drunk.

“How about we just set this over here, yeah?” he says delicately, placing the wine bottle at a safe distance from Harry who looks rumpled and small. He crouches down so that they’re nearly eye level , hand on Harry’s arm, their knees brushing together. “What’s wrong?” He swallows.

Harry shakes his head, remaining silent, before dragging away his hands, eyes still closed. He shakes his head again, his face crumpling, eyes squeezing shut. In some indescribable way, it destroys Louis.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, heartbroken instantly as he surveys the boy’s pained face. And he feels it then, feels that surge of ‘in love’ shit that’s just so new to him. He feels it pushing his limbs and it’s like he’s drunk, unable to coherently consider his actions and just plunging into what feels right. He crowds closer, wanting to touch and pet and soothe, one hand gently trying to tilt Harry’s face fully towards him, the other petting at his arm, his knee, his jacket.

No reply comes, just a bitten lip as Harry’s eyes remain closed shut.

And the seconds pass, Louis imploring, Harry wincing, the room silent and watchful and hazy. These are the moments Louis feels out of his league, like he’s handling brittle paper, ready to crumble at the first wrong touch. He just doesn’t _know_. Doesn’t know what Harry feels or what will make any of it better.

“You feel a pain I will never understand,” Louis finds himself mumbling aloud, mostly to himself, fingers beginning to smooth out the stress lines by Harry’s eyes, his lips. “But I’m here,” he says, louder. “Remember? You can’t get rid of me? It’s too late?”

There’s a brief pause.

Then, slowly, Harry nods and Louis feels it acutely as his hand seeks Louis’ jumper and clenches it in his fist. It may or may not be his imagination that he pulls him closer. Louis isn’t really sure what’s real right now, his adrenaline pumping as Harry clings to him in all his bruised eye and inner demon glory, his heart simultaneously swelling and shattering as he shuffles still closer, sliding his hands into Harry’s mess of curls comfortingly. Because he needs to feel close. Because he wants to envelop Harry in a cocoon and protect him, shield him, swallow him alive with _all that he has_.

But all he can do is softly grip his curls.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers and he doesn’t know what isn’t okay, doesn’t know what even is wrong with Harry, but maybe he’s also telling it to himself because he sort of feels like he’s embarking on a terrifying fucking journey without a compass or a map or even a sense of what continent he’s on. He’s a little bit terrified and a lot overwhelmed and he had full plans to come here today to simply declare his heart’s desires to Harry but now Harry’s drunk and almost crying and Louis’ almost pulling him out of his chair and onto the floor with him so that he can hold him and…

Why is being in love so complicated? It’s been less than two days. Honestly.

An unintelligible word falls from Harry’s lips as he brings his head to Louis’ shoulder, muffling the words into his neck. It spears Louis’ heart.

“What?” he asks gently, attempting to lift Harry’s head, fingers still lost within the tangles of forest curls. His heart is thumping.

Harry’s sliding out of the chair, pushing into Louis, his knees knocking as he clunks to the floor, but Louis keeps his grip on him, makes sure he doesn’t bump his limbs against the desk or tip over. Harry’s hands are still fisted into Louis’ jumper. It burns.

Harry repeats the word, still unheard, and this time he lets his head be lifted as Louis aligns their faces, brushes his thumbs over Harry’s eyelids as if stroking them to open. As if the answers and the muffled words will become clear in his gaze. He just wants to see Harry, really. He just wants to look in his eyes so he knows, has some idea as to what’s going on, what’s brought this on, what this is about, what he feels.

“Harry,” he prods again, and Harry makes a small noise. Louis’ ears actually pound.

Is Harry in love with him? Is this him trying to tell Louis he’s in love with him? Louis wants it so badly, allows himself to wish for it, allows himself to entertain the possibility. He feels like he could dry heave right now. And he’s blind, so fucking blinded by the feel of Harry, by the scent of him (minus the wine and despair) as Harry _leans_ his _forehead_ against Louis’. He fucking leans his forehead against Louis’ fucking forehead, and the cosmos might have just imploded, the stars might have just collided and shattered galaxies.

His eyes still aren’t open but Louis is somewhat thankful now because he doesn’t think he could take it if they were. This moment is just…too much. Too much and too unexpected. Too fast.

But Harry’s forehead is still against Louis’ and as Louis continues to murmur Harry’s name—imploringly, questioningly, comfortingly—their faces seem to meld together. They just gently drift towards each other until warm breath is against warm breath, nose against nose and fuck fuck fuck, Louis suddenly feels the urge to cough or laugh or hiccup because this is all so fragile and sudden and terrifying and _what is happening??_

Harry’s eyes are still closed, but the stress of the lines is easing. They’re no longer squeezed tight, but relaxing into smoothness as Louis’ nose bumps his cheek, and he’s not really sure but they may or may not be fucking nuzzling? Like bear cubs? Is that what this is? He’s never nuzzled before—fucking _never_ —but this might be what’s happening and it makes him want to be sick because he never expected something so completely random and simple to be so fucking poetic and monumental.

And then, without any warning or intention, their lips are just brushing together, feather-soft, and it’s probably by accident because Harry’s so lost inside of himself and inebriated and Louis is just trying to stay upright (this is _not_ how he expected this to go down) but only one second passes. One second of their lips warm and dry against each other, Louis’ hands on either side of Harry’s head, buried in his hair, Harry’s hands buried within the fabric of Louis’ jumper, near his stomach, and they freeze. They both freeze and Louis’ shocked mind is screaming at him, startled and panicked because Harry is _drunk_ right now.

But he doesn’t need to worry, doesn’t need to push him away because Harry jumps back as if struck by lightning, and then Harry opens his eyes, red, glossy, and sad. Louis’ heart is pounding in his throat as he tries to breathe, tries to cling to reality. He removes his hands from Harry’s hair, Harry removes his fists from Louis’ jumper.

Harry stares at him, swaying on the spot, unshed tears settled in his eyes.

Louis stares back, his whole body electric.

“He’s so mad,” is what Harry slurs.

Louis blinks. What?

“Who’s mad?” Louis asks, startled, and Harry bows his head, hides his face within his hands.

“My father,” Harry mumbles, nearly falling backwards as he goes to sit on his heels.

Louis steadies him.

Fuck.

“Why is he mad at you?” is the only thing he can think to ask.

“He’s not any better. Why isn’t he better?” Harry asks, maybe not even hearing Louis. Just lost and sad, helpless. And very drunk. “The song. I thought the song would make him better. Happier. Sometimes it works, that’s why I keep writing them. They’re for him. All for him.”

Louis stares.

‘Keep writing them.' That’s why Harry…keeps _writing_ them? What the actual fuck?

“Keep writing what?” Louis asks, shocked, forgetting his desire, his love, his panic, and only feeling…well. Shock.

“The songs. All the songs.”

“’Certain Things’?” Louis asks, voice low. So, so shocked. “That’s why you wrote ‘Certain Things’?”

“You were there. You were there when I was writing it. You said it was good—you said the song was good,” Harry says, sad and blinky, like a sleepy owl. Lost.

“I—That’s not the song, though. It _was_ good! But that’s not—I don’t—“

“He didn’t like it,” Harry murmurs, and now his eyes are drifting away, reliving a moment that’s not privy to Louis. “He was so mad. So I wrote him a new one and he said he liked it. He did. He liked it and he sang it and everybody was so happy for him. He likes when people are happy for him.” Harry is swaying and Louis’ arms are anchoring him, clutching both of his elbows. “But it’s not helping. He’s not better. He usually gets better but this time he’s not better. And now I’ve fucked it up.”

“You didn’t,” Louis insists, ears still ringing from the shit that was just lain down. There is so much happening.

“Gemma told him,” he says, sad. “She fucking told him.”

“Told him what?”

“About my mum.”

Louis’ insides ping, pity overtaking him.

“He didn’t know she—“ _Died_ , Louis’ about to question incredulously. He swallows, unable to say it.

Harry looks at him, eyes settling upon him slowly and he looks…odd.

“He knows I’m looking for her.”

Louis stares. “Looking…?”

“He knows I’m looking for her,” Harry repeats, grumpy and sad and scowling, wiping a curl away from his face with the back of his smooth, pallid hand. Skin like polished bone.

And Louis is sober, he’s dead sober, but suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning all around them, topsy turvy, and Louis just keep staring at Harry because _what_ did he just say?

Harry’s looking for his _mum?_ His _mum_ who _died_ when he was nine from an _overdose?_

Liam had filled him in on the details one afternoon at a luncheon, long ago, back when Harry and him had hated each other.

“Why’s he like that?” Louis had asked with disgust, watching as Harry delicately pecked his lips to the mouths of the guests, pressing gold-rimmed martini glasses into everybody’s hands and smiling crookedly, traitorously innocent as he sized them all up.

“Because he always has been,” Liam had said simply, glass in hand, jacket buttoned to the top. He crowded closer to Louis with delighted eyes, lowering his voice. “Even when his mum died.”

“So Niall said,” Louis murmured, sipping his drink, eyes on Harry across the room.

Liam’s eyes glinted, his smile secretive. He inclined his head closer to Louis’. “Heroin overdose. Harry was away at school. I heard that when they told him, the only thing he said was that he needed to go shopping for the right outfit.”

Louis had shaken his head in disgust.

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s Harry,” Liam had said, and smiled wide when Louis turned to him, incredulous.

But now.

Now Harry is here, on the floor, bemoaned and speaking of his mother and Louis’ mind is clicking and whirring and the story that he had once pieced together, the bits he had been fed and had swallowed without question, are now jumbling together and breaking apart.

And Louis doesn’t know what to think.

“Harry…” he says, bereft of words and oxygen.

“Gemma told him that I’d found her,” Harry continues, sad. Sad and staring at his hands, lying limp on his thighs. “Because she’s mad. She wants to get at me because I never helped her—but she wouldn’t let me help her, Louis! So she told father that I’d found her.”

The words don’t make sense. There is so much happening. Louis’ heart is in his throat.

“But the joke’s on her,” Harry continues in a laugh, cold, small, sad. “Because she doesn’t want to see me. My mum doesn’t fucking want me!”

“Harry—“

“He’s so mad, Louis,” Harry whispers, gripping onto Louis’ elbows as tight as he’s gripping onto his. “He never wanted me to find her. That’s why he made her leave after I’d found out who she was.”

Louis’ head is spinning.

What?

_What?_

“Harry, what are you talking about?” Louis practically begs, overwhelmed, trying to search Harry’s drunken, manic eyes.

This is not what he expected. This is _not_ what he expected.

But Harry doesn’t answer, he never answers, just hangs his head, hands still gripped onto Louis’ elbows.

And then the door swings open.

“Harold!” Liam calls happily, walking into the room, Zayn trailing behind him, cigarette pinched between two fingers.

And fuck.

Instantly, Harry’s eyes widen, and before Louis can say or speak or think, Harry pops up off the ground like a daisy, a wobbly smile plastering his lips.

“You’ve come early!” he remarks, voice only slightly off. “The dinner isn’t for another couple of hours.”

Louis stares at him from the ground, heart still thumping.

“We got a bit bored, to be honest,” Liam says, wrapping his hands around Zayn’s arm, pulling him close. “Decided to help you prepare and whatnot. If you need us, that is.”

There’s a brief pause, one where Louis only hears his pulse in his ears, and he can feel Harry thinking, can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the brief clenching of his fist. And then it’s gone.

“Of course,” Harry smiles, opening his arms in welcome. Sweat beads on his brow. “Come in, boys, come in. Beverage?”

It’s all bizarre, totally at odds with what was just happening, and Louis is still positively reeling from everything—Harry’s mum? Is maybe alive?—but he pushes it away, pushes everything away as much as he can as he stands up as well.

Liam and Zayn immediately look to him, surprise alighting their faces.

“Louis!” Liam says happily, excited. “I didn’t know you were here! Are you helping Harry as well?”

But Zayn’s eyes cut through him, reading every thought he possesses, before slicing over to Harry.

“Er, Li? Maybe we should go. Come back a bit later,” Zayn says coolly, but his eyes are processing, absorbing.

“What? Why?” Liam asks, brow furrowing. “I want to stay.”

“Darling—“

“Please, can we stay?” Liam begs, full on pouting, and Louis can only stare and watch, standing beside Harry who is just barely swaying on the spot, the heat from his body assaulting Louis.

All he wants to do is hold him, keep his pieces together. Kiss his tears and massage his thoughts and let him speak, let him release. (When did he become such an incredible sap?) But now Liam and Zayn are here and it doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere, Zayn failing abysmally in his attempts to resist Liam’s wide, pleading eyes.

“Well, all right,” Zayn relents, casting a glance in Harry’s direction. “But only if we’re honestly not…in the way.”

Liam turns his wide eyes to Louis and Harry.

Another brief pause.

“Oh no, not at all,” Harry smiles.

“Not even,” Louis agrees weakly, but Zayn’s eyes remain on him, questioning lightly.

“Excellent!” Liam beams, clapping his hands together. “Then let’s have a bit of piano, yes? Zayn? You up for a song?”

And just like that, the chaos is swept under the rug, and Louis finds himself stuck.

And all he feels is Harry.

**

It’s right around when dinner is delivered that Niall arrives in a flurry, smiling and carrying the cold wind in his wake, an enormous bottle of Jameson tucked under his arm.

“There’s talk of ‘Certain Things’ being nominated for a Brit!” he says excitedly, grin wide. “Fuckin’ amazing!”

And Louis looks to Harry, unable to stop himself. Harry doesn’t smile, just looks away.

Louis needs to talk to him. He needs to talk. There’s so much to say. So, so much.

“That’s brilliant,” Liam smiles, stirring his tea. “You must be so excited. Will you be going to the awards ceremony?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely!”

“We’ll go then, too,” Zayn says, lifting his glass of wine. “For you.”

Liam beams.

It’s all so normal. The only odd moments are when Niall casts a questioning glance at Louis, attempting to discreetly text him from under the table.

_‘Well?’_

Louis rolls his eyes.

_‘Well what?’_

_‘Did u fuck him?’_

_‘You’re a pig.’_

And Louis receives a winking emoticon.

_‘But srsly. What happened? U ok?’_

Before Louis can answer:

_‘U seem off. So does Harry. Do u want me to get us out of here? U wanna go?’_

Louis sighs, feels a smile on the horizon.

_‘Nah. I just need to talk to him. Can you get the lads to leave early?’_

_‘Sure thing’_

It’s only about a half hour later, after dinner’s been finished and the plates are stacked in the middle of the table, brandy swirling in glasses and cigars distributed, when Niall whoops after reading a text he’s just received.

“There’s gonna be a wicked fuckin’ party at Andrew Belmont’s place.”

“Belmont?” Liam perks. “Oh, they’re a good family.”

“Come to the party then. Now,” Niall says unabashedly, sending a discreet wink Louis’ way.

And it’s just that easy.

Or maybe it’s not.

“We were going to study tonight,” Zayn says to Liam—who’s already looking excitedly at Niall, nodding. “We were going to stay in and study, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Liam says, beginning to deflate. He ponders for a moment before: “But tomorrow, yeah? We could study tomorrow? I’m completely caught up. I could use a bit of fun after this week. All I do is work—it’d be nice to let off some steam.”

Zayn studies him, lips pursed, but eventually nods. “All right,” he relents, and he doesn’t sound enthused. Louis sends him a curious look, but Zayn just looks away, grip tightening on Liam’s hand. “We can go.”

“Go now, yeah? Drinks at my flat first? Then Nelson’ll drive us over.”

“Marvelous!” Liam beams, already standing up.

Zayn sighs, standing up as well.

And Louis doesn’t want to feel relieved, he really doesn’t. But. He does.

“Well, it’s been fun,” he says, smiling, his anticipation thrumming. “Text me when you get there. Send me pictures every time Niall hugs a stranger.”

“You’re not coming?” Liam asks, instantly saddened.

“Nah,” he says, refusing to look at Harry. Who is currently standing by the window, looking out. Tragic hero little fucker. “Think I’ll just have an early night.”

“Yeah, take it easy,” Zayn says, pleased, before pulling him aside. His eyes focus on him, concerned and the color of rich chocolate. “Is everything all right?” he asks, voice quiet. He stares closely.

“Yeah. Yeah we just… Just need to have a chat.”

Zayn nods, studying his face. “He’s okay? Harry?”

“Yeah, I think so? I mean. I’m going to talk to him.”

“Good. Take care of him, yeah? Sorry for coming so early…”

Louis shakes his head, pressing fingers to Zayn’s lips, shushing him with a big smile. “Hush, you. No worries. Now you go ahead and make nice with the boyfriend and the leprechaun.”

A flicker of a smile crosses Zayn’s lips, his eyes softening, before he momentarily darkens.

“Don’t want Liam to go out, to be honest,” he says, looking his way.

Surprised, Louis tilts his head in inquiry. “Really? Why?”

Zayn pauses, as if searching for the right words, before suddenly shaking his head. “No reason. I just…” He looks back to Louis, face neutral. “He likes to be ahead of schedule. I think he’ll regret going out, that’s all.”

Ah.

Louis nods but…he knows. He knows the reason.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says anyways, quietly, squeezing Zayn’s arm reassuringly.

At that, relief tints Zayn’s eyes, a beautiful and genuine smile lighting up his face. He squeezes Louis’ arm in return. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“You coming, you fuckin’ slacker?” Niall calls, impatient, but he winks when Louis catches his eye.

Niall is just an incredible winker.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn mumbles, rolling his eyes. Lacing his fingers with Liam’s they march out the door, calling out their farewells and smiling with the promises of the night.

“Good luck again. For real this time, you peasant,” Niall says, only so Louis can hear, as he passes by him on his way to the door.

“Thanks,” Louis says flatly, before shutting the door in Niall’s laughing face.

Leaving just Louis and Harry. It’s always just Louis and Harry.

And a moment of silence.

“So,” Louis begins, unsure of how to pick up where they left off. He watches Harry at the window, watches the way his head bows and the lamps in the gardens below illuminate his face in soft glows. His eyelashes look brittle and bright, his hair sculpted into waves upon curls that gleam bronze.

Harry is so, so beautiful.

Louis is so, so in love. And it’s still really fucking weird to think it. To know it.

And yet it’s not.

“That was some dinner,” he finds himself saying, just for the sake of speaking.

Harry nods, eyes staring unblinkingly out the window.

“’M glad the boys are going to have fun tonight.”

“You should’ve went with them,” Harry says quietly, never blinking.

Louis cocks an eyebrow. “Why, though? Why would I want to?” He walks to stand beside Harry, stares openly at his profile. He wants to hold his hand. But instead he holds his arm. “It’s not them I want to be with right now.” The unsaid words are there.

Harry seems to catch them, his eyes finally blinking as he turns his head to smile at Louis.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

Louis wants to live in those words, wants to live in the lips that formed them, the smile that colored them. Feeling watery and gushy and wavy on the edges, he rubs his thumb along Harry’s arm, unable to stop himself.

“I’m tired,” Harry says, turning back to the window.

Louis hums agreement, unable to look away.

“I want to lie down. Can we lie down?” Harry asks.

We.

The ground feels uneven.

“Of course we can,” Louis says, a little too breathlessly, and Harry smiles again, small.

Harry nods to his bedroom, settling soft eyes on Louis. “I’ll be in in a second. Go ahead,” he says with that smile before turning away and disappearing into the adjoining room.

Louis’ insides are doing strange things. Somersaults, backflips, the crab walk. Strange, strange things.

Shakily, he walks to the bedroom, walks to the bed until his knees bump against the edge. He crawls in, feeling the soft black fabric beneath his hands, before gently lying down, head rested on the pillow, pulse rickety. He lies there and he breathes, waiting for Harry to come.

He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

But suddenly he has the urge again—he has the urge to confess his love, his undying passion, his feelings that have been fucking him up so steadily ever since he came to this goddamn school.

In that moment he promises himself: tonight’s the night. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna tell Harry Styles that he’s in love with him.

It’s also in that moment that Harry bumbles back into the room, quiet and soft, his jacket now off and his bow tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He goes to the bed—Louis’ insides are sparking, maybe catching on fire—and lies down carefully.

But.

But it’s far away from Louis, not even touching him, and he makes no notice of Louis, doesn’t look his way or reach out or anything, just lays his hands atop his stomach and stares up at the ceiling silently. He swallows and Louis sees his adam’s apple bob.

“I hadn’t seen my mum since I was sixteen,” Harry says, cutting the silence. He continues to stare upwards, separate from Louis.

So Louis doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“She’d been around all my life, though. She was my au pair,” he says softly and Louis’ eyes bug.

Because what? _What??_

All thoughts of his love life fly out the window, just like that. Because once again, Louis’ mind is getting fucked and _what??_ Frantically, he tries to recall his conversation with Zayn—the one they had so long ago—tries to remember what he said about the au pair. She’d left, hadn’t she? Left a month after Gemma? Harry hadn’t been the same since?

Fuck. It’s all coming together.

“I always liked her—she looked after me the most, out of everyone in my life,” Harry continues, oblivious to Louis’ internal hurricane. “She was the only one who paid attention to me growing up. Sometimes the only one who said my name. She called me ‘Harold,’” he smiles, soft and fond and so far away, blanketed in darkness. Louis feels knots in his stomach. “I didn’t know she was my mum, though. I just thought she liked me. I just thought she grew to care for me. That she saw something.” Harry pauses, just momentarily, before continuing. “The day I discovered who she was was the same day she disappeared. My father paid her off.” He chuckles, coldly. “She took the money.”

And Louis has to say something.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” he says, unable to stop himself, his hands quivering.

But Harry continues as if he hasn’t heard.

“Aside from her, it didn’t really… It didn’t really feel like I had much of anybody, actually. Not really. I grew up with my father, my sister, and…whoever was my mum for that day.” Louis cringes. “Gemma raised me, mostly because father couldn’t. He just couldn’t.” Louis can see Harry biting his lips, his fingers begin to twitch. “Sometimes he would forget who I was.” The sentence is heavy, flat. “I’d come in the room and he’d get so scared, so angry because he thought I was a stranger. When I was younger it terrified me. Because I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what was wrong with him.” He sighs. “He’s got just about every disorder in the book. But, thing is, he wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t always this bad.” Another pause. “I guess the drugs didn’t help anything—all the acid he did when he was younger. He fried his brain, you know. He fried it, and it just made everything worse. He probably would’ve been decently okay if he just didn’t do all that shit all the fucking time. It made everything _so_ much worse.”

Louis bites his lips, listens, stares into the darkness of the room.

“So it was difficult when I was growing up. He’d always fight with whoever he was with—and badly. Loudly. Violently.  And then he’d forget about me completely. Look past me. Ignore me when I spoke, when I needed something. He was always playing guitar or piano, always in the studio, or on tour or promoting a new album. Sometimes partying if he had a relapse…” Another small pause, another breath escaping Louis. “But sometimes he would obsess over me, too. Like, he would just focus all of his attention on me. Usually whenever he didn’t have anybody else. Sometimes he would wake me up in the middle of the night, like shaking me, just to see if I was breathing. Sometimes just to say hi. Sometimes I’d wake up and he’d be hitting me. There was no consistency.

“I have a few good memories. He used to take me into the studio and let me sing into the microphones. He’d let me sing whatever I wanted and play whatever instrument I wanted. Then we’d listen to it back and…it was fun. It was just fun. And he’d smile at me. He’d smile like he was so happy. I remember him holding me so I could sing in the microphone with him and I remember his smile.”

Just saying it makes Harry beam, and Louis beams with him, if a little unsteadily.

“But then he married Barbara. The model.” At this, Harry pauses, and just enough time passes for Louis to wonder if he should question further, when Harry suddenly continues. “I was about six or seven. She despised me. She found me annoying. Everybody loved me, you see. Everybody. Our entire staff, our entire family. Friends. My father, if he was able to. But she _hated_ me.

“Sometimes I wonder if she was jealous. Because she loved attention—she was a nasty peacock—and I usually had more than her. Because I was the youngest and Gemma coddled me.” Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. But it all got a bit worse after she came.

“Father was fairly clean when they first got married. I was the ring bearer.” Louis smiles at the thought. “But she was big on coke—and a lot of it—so it wasn’t long before he was using again. And that just made everything…worse. They’d party all night, both of them, come back at all hours of the night and just fuck in the kitchen or the living room or…” Harry winces. “I was too young for that, you know? Like, I didn’t… They shouldn’t have done that, but I think she did it on purpose. I remember once being very young and going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and they were in there. It was so fucking disturbing, that. And she saw me. She saw me walk in, wearing fucking Spiderman pajamas, and she laughed.”

A small fire ignites within Louis. This is... Well. It's difficult to hear. It's difficult to imagine Harry as a sweet youth. A tiny china doll face on a tiny porcelain boy, wrapped up in warm Spiderman pajamas, eyes wide and scared and wet with tears.... 

It's difficult.

“She’d tell me not to talk, just about every day," Harry continues, voice husky with too much weight. "She would never address me personally. She’d always tell my au pair—my mum, coincidentally—to tell me whatever it was that she had to say. I just didn’t exist to her. And she talked about me to my father. She made shit up, she lied to him. And he believed her because he’s always been so paranoid. Because he couldn’t help but forget who I was in the first place. I’ve never really been sure about how much he remembers of me or how well he knows me. Not really.

“But eventually I got used to it. And I got attention at school, so it wasn’t like I was totally ignored or anything. I got awards and endless praise and the teachers adored me, were proper parental to me, and I had tons of friends and no enemies and… It was nice at school. At school I had a name, at home I didn’t. And it wasn’t so bad; not really.”

Louis’ heart hurts.

“However. Things got more complicated when I was nine.”

Nine.

The age Zayn and Niall had said Harry’s mum died.

“Barbara died that year,” Harry says, voice distant. And, ah, there it is.

“An overdose?” Louis blurts, caught within the story, heart caught within a blender.

A stunned silence fills the room as Harry turns to face Louis, shock written clear across his face in the shadow.

“An overdose?” he repeats, stunned. “No. She killed herself.”

Louis’ stomach drops.

Oh.

“I found her.”

Louis’ stomach drops further, all oxygen and warmth leaving his body.

“I was nine and I came home from school and I found her. I had to call my father.” Harry’s voice is distant, strangled, slow as molasses. So quiet. “I had to wait for him to get there. The paramedics got there first. Eventually he came. I had to tell him. I was only nine, Louis.” And Harry’s voice is so small. So deep and grown but so small. Louis is frozen in horror. _What?_ “And he was so upset. He cried for so long. I stayed with him all night and he just cried and hugged me. I wasn’t used to being hugged, not by him, so it was almost nice.” Harry cringes. “That’s horrible to say.”

“It’s not,” Louis insists in a whisper, voice gone, throat clogged. He wants to cry. It's all so _difficult_. It's _so much_. 

Harry bows his head, tucks his chin into his chest. “I didn’t know how to deal with any of it. So I didn’t. It was odd. It was just like…I could forget about it, you know? They had me see counselors and talk to psychologists and tried to put me on medication… But I didn’t need any of it because I didn’t feel anything. For some reason I could, like, just separate from it. When I went to school nobody knew the details, nobody knew how deeply I was involved or what happened—they just thought she died. So I went with it and never had to talk about it and I just didn’t feel it. It was like it never happened.

“Gemma tried to get me to talk about it. She’d sit in my room at night and hold my hand and ask me all these questions. But I never talked to her. I couldn’t. I think eventually she understood.

“After that, my father got pretty bad. Kept saying he wanted to kill himself, too. Which was an honest concern. He’s not right, you know. He doesn’t know why he thinks those things, but he does. He clung to me a bit, too. I mean, he had tons of girlfriends, got married a couple more times—nothing significant, they all left, and most of them pretended I didn’t exist which was good—so he wasn’t lonely, but I think he was scared. So he’d sit with me until I fell asleep at night and ask me to take him to the studio every day. He was still angry, still unpredictable. But… I was all he had. Gemma despised him, so he despised her. She didn’t like how he treated us, and she always tried to keep him away from me. She never liked Barbara or any other woman, even though they usually were nicer to her than me. Not always, though. Sometimes they hated her more. But she never cared, really. Occasionally she’d cry. Sometimes I would find her in her room, crying, and she’d always try to hide her face from me. She never wanted me to see. She tried to hide me from everything, even my father. But she never could and eventually, she only hid herself.

“The only time Gemma started to get along with father was when he began helping her get her name out there—she wanted to be a model—and then they started partying together. But that didn’t last long because then she left.”

Louis is so, so sick.

“That was when Mira was married to him. When Zayn started living with us.” Harry’s voice has grown soft now, cloudy. “It was like a breath of fresh air when they came. Mira was so beautiful. So kind. She would have been a perfect mother. But…I never cared much, not really. Never properly loved her. Not when everybody was so temporary, so fleeting. It just didn’t make sense, you know? To love somebody who was so impermanent. I enjoyed her company and her brief stint in my life, but I never wanted her as a _mother._ I still had my au pair who tried the best she could to care for Gemma and I, who called me by my name and asked me what I wanted for breakfast. Who put me to bed when my father came home fucked up, trying to upend every table and host parties filled with junkies. So I didn’t need a mother… But I did need Zayn.”

A silent, betraying streak of jealousy whips across Louis’ chest. But he pushes it down, pushes if far away because _no_. This is not the time.

“I needed a friend. A true friend. And that’s what he was. He was the best mate I’d ever had. We never took anything seriously, nothing was serious, and we always had fun and he was always so nice and it was like…for the first time I was almost properly happy. My father was married to a nice lady and I had a best mate and a sister and Anne—my mum—and I was just sort of…happy.

“But then everything became serious.”

Louis watches, entranced and caught as Harry closes his eyes.

“Gemma left without saying goodbye. She got signed and she just left because she didn’t want to deal with my father anymore. But I guess she didn’t want to deal with me either because I’ve barely heard from her since. She’s a proper addict now. My father did well.” The bitterness tinges his words painfully. Louis wants to dilute it, wants to suck the venom out of the bite. “It was only a month later, one fucking month, when Anne left. She just took the money and left in the middle of the night. She didn’t say goodbye either. She was just gone.

“And then Zayn told me he was in love with me. And I couldn’t… I needed a _friend_ , Louis. I didn’t want _that_. I wanted a friend. But Zayn wanted more, needed more, so… I remember _laughing_. Laughing because I didn’t want it all to be so serious. I didn’t want everything to be that serious. I wanted to always have fun with him, I wanted to always care for him, but I didn’t want him to ruin it like that… But things were never the same afterwards, and so I lost my sister, my mum, and my best mate. But, still, it was just like when Barbara died—I didn’t _feel_ it. It was like it was someone else’s life and not my own. I didn’t deal with it because, really, I didn’t have to. I just kept living and made my own fun and forgot it all. I never let anything become too heavy, too serious, you know? And it was fine.

“For the next two years of my life, after Mira left my father, I went to boarding school for a bit until my father began relapsing again. So I came back to look after him. Then eventually I came here. He was in a bad state when I returned, a really bad state, and he went missing for months and months. After awhile we’d come to the conclusion that he’d killed himself—he’s always saying he wants to—and so we searched for him. I spent the first months here searching for him every chance I could, getting phone calls from P.I.’s and family friends who just kept searching, never giving up. Trying to keep it from the tabloids. Paying off reporters. You name it.”

Louis’ mind is turning, images flying past at lightning speed.

“Is that what you were searching for at your house?” he asks, voice raw, pieces fitting together in his head. “When—when my mum came and you took me with you? Were you searching for your father?”

Harry nods, biting his lip. “I thought he might’ve went there to…you know. I was searching for his body, basically. Odd and horrible as that must sound. That’s why I didn’t want you to follow me.” Again, Harry bites his lip, working away at it nervously, furiously. “I shouldn’t have brought you, though, I know. I’m sorry. I just…”

“Don’t apologize,” Louis says, unable to blink and wanting so badly to touch, to hold, to clutch. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to…go through that alone. Were it as bad as you’d thought.”

Silence expands within the room.

“We did find him, though. Alive,” Harry says eventually, slow and careening. “A friend of the family did. I’ve kept a close eye on him ever since, but… He’s…well. He’s not great right now. Despite the song, despite the fame, despite Nick trying to help him… Especially because he knows I’ve been looking for Anne. And especially because he knows I’ve found her.” Harry closes his eyes more tightly. Louis wonders if he’s begun to cry. He can feel his own storms brewing. “But what he doesn’t know is that she refused to see me. I finally found her, Louis. After so, so long. And she refused to see me.” He opens his eyes, drags them to Louis. So pained. “That’s why I showed up at your flat that night. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t…” He turns away again.

“You had just come from your mother’s?” Louis asks, winded. So much information. So much. So overwhelmed.

Harry nods, swallowing. “I didn’t want to be alone.”  

Where Louis’ heart used to be is now a bloody, shattered mess.

“You’ll never be alone again,” he manages, impassioned. He sits up, his limbs shaky.

“You can’t promise that.”

“Yes I can,” Louis says fiercely. “I can speak for myself. I’m always going to be here.” He manages the weakest of smiles. “You should know that by now. We’ve gone over it enough.”

Harry’s brow furrows deep, turning his head away, shutting his eyes fiercely.

The seconds drag past.

“Is that where you go?” Louis asks, faintly. Every question is rising to the surface. Every piece is beginning to assemble. “When you just…disappear for days on end? To search for your mum?”

Harry nods. “Mostly. Sometimes because I try to see Gemma. Sometimes it’s because of my father.”

It’s because Harry keeps trying to reach out. Over and over and over again. Harry disappears, vanishes, because he’s searching. Searching and being spurned by the only people he has in his fucking life.

Louis wants to gag.

Louis wants to cry.

Louis wants to fix it all.

Louis wants so much.

“I’m sorry I’ve…unloaded all of this on you,” Harry says eventually. “But I saw you with your father and I heard some of the things you were saying and…” He looks at Louis again, face open, eyes somehow managing to glint amongst lightless shadow. “I want to know you, Louis. And I want you to know me.”

Out of the thousands of emotions Louis is feeling right now (anxiety, pity, despair, helplessness—the list goes on) there is one predominant feeling that shoots to the surface: love.

Love for Harry because here is this boy.

This boy who’s been left by everybody he loves, who grew up simultaneously in the spotlight and in anonymity, who is so widely adored and forgotten, who shields himself from the world that is too much to bear, and who has just opened his veins for Louis.

Here is this boy telling Louis that he wants to _know_ him. That he, who has never let himself love, who has never opened himself up to the vulnerabilities of the world, who laughed at Zayn’s love because it was too _serious_ , is telling him that he wants Louis to _know_ him.

To know him.

To know all the secrets and the dark spaces. To unlock the padlocked doors and scour the dark, dusty passageways where nobody has yet tread and...

And the fact that Louis is waxing just a little too poetic right now is all the proof in the world he needs to know that he's gonna go for it.  He’s going to tell Harry he loves him, that he’s in love with him, is going to scoop him up in his arm and kiss the shadow monsters away, press his lips against every wound and pour the contents of his soul—

“I just…really need a friend right now,” Harry says, interrupting Louis’ thoughts. “What I had with Zayn… I miss it.”

And poof!

The dream is popped.

Louis deflates instantly.

… _Friend?_

“It’s different with you, Louis,” Harry says, quiet and sincere, eyes so, so big and bursting with dusty green shimmer. “I never wanted anybody in my life after that. I never wanted people, you know? Like…I don’t—I can’t feel things. Not like normal people do. Not like everybody else. I’m, like, I’m just…” He drifts off, unable to find the words. Find the words that press into the soft parts that are left within Louis. “I can’t grow attached to shadows. They’re gone as quickly as they come and, like, I just don’t _feel_ things. I don’t, like, care properly, I guess. But. _You_ make me feel, Louis. You just do. And I’m not used to it and, like…I don’t even know if I’m doing it right. But you make things different. You make me want what I don’t want with anybody else. A friend again. A _real_ friend.”

“Friend,” Louis repeats faintly, and he’s trying, he’s trying so hard to be okay with this because this is what Harry needs. He’s just heard it all, all the shit in Harry’s messed up fucking life and it makes sense on paper, it does, that Harry needs a friend before he needs a romance but _it hurts_.

It hurts _so_ much.

Harry nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah. You’re different. You’re worth it, Louis.”

 _Stab stab stab_ , goes the knife in Louis’ ribcage.

The moon is out. Its beams stream through the thick velvet curtains. It dances upon the glinting keys of the piano, it slices the floorboards, it frosts the surface of the blankets on the bed. It’s like a dream. Everything’s bright and murky and dark. All at once.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be, Harry,” he finds himself replying. And it doesn’t hurt as much as he thought, maybe because he’s numb. Or maybe because he really just loves Harry that much that it’s become one of those selfless kinds of loves that, apparently, really do exist.

Which is fucking excellent.

Here’s to a life of selfless misery and cats. Yay.

“I’ll be whatever you want,” Louis whispers again, clinging to the words Harry’s said, ignoring the pangs at the word ‘friend’. Why is it such a poisonous word? It’s a good word. It’s a word that he understands. A word that’s good for Harry. A word that could only be the beginning, really.

Ugh.

He can’t help it now, his emotions short-circuiting. He reaches over and rests his hand lightly upon Harry’s shoulder because he needs to feel his solidity right now. He needs that.

Harry’s muscles relax instantly, his face warming as he regards Louis through moonbeams.

“I want to sleep,” he says quietly. “But stay, yeah?”

Stay.

Stay and sleep in the same goddamn bed. Stay and be friends and sleep together in this bed.

Okay.

Yay.

But Louis is trying. He’s being a selfish dick right now but he’s _trying_ not to be.

“Of course,” he says scratchily, and Harry beams.

With little else to say, Harry shuffles to Louis, tucks his head quietly between Louis’ neck and shoulder, wrapping slender arms around his body.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he mutters, lips brushing Louis’ burning collarbone.

“Not another word for the rest of the night,” Louis promises, lightheaded. Despaired and overwhelmed. Everything is so much. “We’ll play the silent game. Winner gets to duct tape Niall’s mouth shut.”

He feels Harry’s chuckle as he wraps his arms tighter around Louis, feels his smile against the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“Goodnight, Louis,” Harry says, voice curved into a sleepy smile. His body is loose, relieved.

Louis wonders if he’s ever told any of this to anybody before. If Louis is the first to hear it all. To know.

“Goodnight, Harold,” Louis breathes, shutting his eyes as he inhales Harry’s scent, Harry’s soul, Harry’s everything. He’s so full of Harry.

And Louis holds on, swallows down the disappointment and the _feeling_ that’s blocking his air passageways. He holds on to Harry protectively because Louis is here. He’s here and he’s going nowhere.

Even if Harry just wants a friend right now.

Even if Harry never, ever falls in love with him.

Even if Harry finds someone else and marries them and has tons of beautiful curly babies.

Even if it kills Louis. He won’t let Harry go.

It’s as he’s finally drifting off that he hears Harry sigh his name in his sleep.

And so he tightens his hold onto him just that much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY OHKAY, BEFORE YOU GUYS COME AT ME WITH PITCHFORKS! Don't despair, the whole friendzone thing isn't going to last long at alllll. Remember, it's Harry. He's probably a little oblivious of how he feels if this is all new, no? So don't fret and think I'm going to drag this out for forever--I promise it will be fixed within the next chappa! Well. Sorta fixed.
> 
> Ummm this will probably have to be re-edited by me later. I never feel pleased tho, do I? :P Apologies if it's a jumbled mess!
> 
> This chapter's song TO A T is Coldplay's "X & Y" HONESTLY. If you want to know how Harry is thinking right now, how Harry has been thinking for the last couple of chapters, listen to that song. Word for word, that's what Harry's going thru. It's eerie. (Good job, Coldplay)
> 
> Come @ me on tumblr for chats n feelings! (mizzwilde) I love you guys a latte! Thank you for everything! I will respond to all reviews when the world stops being such a storm! <3 <3 <3


	32. XXXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry trusts Louis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISN'T THE ENDING. Promise.
> 
> Also, BIG, SPANKING THANK YOU to my sparkling betas, Tara and J. You guys are too nice to me. :)

 As the second term of Louis’ first year in university goes by, so does his sanity.

It’s not because he isn’t enjoying himself—he truly is, and though he may despise his father for his self-centered, ignorant ways, he can’t deny that he’s been given an incredible opportunity.

No, it’s more because everything seems to have changed, been turned on its head drastically and irreparably…while simultaneously remaining exactly the same as it’s always been.

Niall still laughs by day, parties by night, leaving crumbs and odd odors in his wake, a trail of cigar smoke, an echoed piano key; or sometimes Rory, much to Louis’ delight because it’s _Rory_ and he’s a comforting presence, especially if Louis is in need of another soul to fill the large, elaborate flat on those particularly dark nights. And he makes a good cup of tea which Louis always respects to a most serious degree.

But still, Niall is Niall and he fills the pauses in the day and leaves chaos in his wake. On those particularly chilly mornings, he will barrel into Louis’ room—as he’s only just beginning to blink bleary eyes open into blinding sun—and flounce onto the bed, wrapping Louis up in his arms.

“We’ve been nominated for a Brit and Grimshaw’s gonna meet with me about possibly doing a mini tour! ‘Certain Things’ is still number one in seven countries! I’ve made it, Tommo! And I’m only 20 years old!” he practically sings one morning, cheeks soft and blushed, hair damp and smelling of quality soap and linen.

Louis groans, trying to push him away, clinging to the shreds of his dreams which were far more pleasant than the reality that awaits him.

Which only makes Niall hold tighter, eyes closed blissfully as he snuggles in closer.

Nick Grimshaw? Firstly, no thanks.

Secondly, touring? With Des? The human timebomb? Absolutely not.

Thirdly, a Brit? Well. That’s not too shabby.

“Does Harry know about all this?” Louis rasps, morning breath in full swing.

Niall shrugs. “I think so. Grimmy made it sound like it.”

“’Grimmy?’” Louis asks, distaste apparent even in his half-woken state. “You’ve gotten to pet names now? Really?”

“That’s what everybody who’s anybody calls him,” Niall assures him with a wink. “Now shut your hole and cuddle me. It’s been a good morning.”

“My morning hasn’t even begun,” Louis grumbles, but, maybe, tucks his body towards Niall, letting himself be engulfed with the warmth of Niall’s jolly, radiating Irish body.

“My night’s gonna be even better,” Niall plows on. “I’m the place to be. Do you know how many parties I’ve gotten invited to already? It’s fuckin’ mad.”

“They only like you because of your fame, you know.”

“I only like them because of their free liquor.”

“As if you couldn’t afford it?”

“Shh, Tommo, shh,” Niall soothes, smushing his hand to Louis’ face. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

And then a there’s a beat before:

“Ireland, did you just fucking fart?”

So, yes, Niall hasn’t changed at all.

And neither have Zayn and Liam, England’s 21st century power couple.

Well.

Mostly.

There has been some….tension as of late, Louis has noticed. Namely in regards to Liam.

“A Brit? How splendid!” Liam says happily, filling Zayn’s glass with wine.

It’s lunch and they’re in Zayn’s rooms, the room smelling of smoke and paint and filled with vibrantly gold afternoon light that cuts through the crystal and paints the walls with flickering rainbows. Ella Fitzgerald plays softly from the stereo in the corner and the weather is just warm enough to warrant a cracked open window, wafting drifted chatter and the smell of cold leaves through the air.

Zayn frowns, lips wrapped around a thin cigarette, fedora tilted artfully above his immaculate quiff. (The boy’s a stud. It’s a bit ridiculous how much so.)

“I thought you knew that already?”

“Nah,” Niall says, slathering jam onto a scone, barely avoiding flicking some onto his pressed white shirt. “Not for sure. Just speculation. I predicted as much.” He takes a bite, his cheeks full and puffy as he beams cheekily. “Of course, I was right.”

“We knew you would be!” Liam says excitedly, teeth sparkling. “It’s going to be so fun! The after parties are going to be sick.”

Louis’ just about to voice his assent, when:

“Exams will be right around that time,” Zayn replies instantly, voice careful and very barely edged as his eyes bore into Liam’s delighted profile.

It makes one of Louis’ eyebrows raise as he exchanges a glance with Harry, who sits beside him stirring his teacup with a tiny golden sword. (Louis doesn’t even bother asking.) (Though he’s 92% sure it’s a letter opener.)

Liam’s brows crease as he looks to Zayn, delight replaced swiftly by confusion.

“I know. What has that to do with anything?”

Zayn stares at him a moment longer, just a moment, a deep frown set in his face. And then he tears his eyes away and stubs out his cigarette, face evening out into casual indifference.

“Nothing, of course.”

But Louis can still see a faint downward quirk of the lips.

It’s been stuff like that that’s been a bit…out of the ordinary. Though, overall, they’ve been relatively the same as they always have been—gazing into each other’s eyes, never separating, hosting timeless luncheons and elaborate parties and muttering their own language in low tones, far beyond the realm of existence of those surrounding them.

They’re still Zayn and Liam and, inexplicably, it settles a comforting blanket over Louis’ heart.

Really, the only change in Louis’ life, the only stark contrast that has brutally assaulted his peace and tranquility and self-confidence, is but one thing.

And it comes in the form of a Harry Styles.

Because Harry has been…

Happy.

That’s probably the best word for it. Harry has been _happy_.

It’s a word he didn’t think he could ever accredit to Harry. Yet here he is, glowing eyes and flowing smiles, and here Louis is, falling apart each time.

And it’s truly wonderful to see, if not a bit extremely fucking painful—because each smile, laugh, and low-octaved, syrupy word spoken has been a tiny dagger to Louis’ tender heart. And considering how much Harry has been doing those things as of late, Louis’ heart looks like a fucking pin cushion.

And every day, it only gets worse.

Because every day, Harry trusts Louis that much more. He smiles that much wider. He laughs that much longer. He gazes at him that much fonder, and it’s all so surreal and treacherous because Louis is Harry’s best friend and Harry is the love of Louis’ life.

It’s been a constant struggle ever since that night Harry had laid it all out for Louis, had ripped his ribcage open and declared it all for Louis to see—Louis the Friend. It’s been such a goddamn _struggle_ and if Louis had thought that that night had encompassed the epitome of human suffering, then he was really fucking incorrect because the next day was, somehow, even worse.

He’d woken up to an empty bed—unsurprisingly—with only a note from Harry that read:

_“I believe in Willie Hughes.”_

And on the back:

_“Thank you”_

He pocketed it, tucked it away when he dragged his weak, heartbroken body back to his flat (Niall was gone, probably still hadn’t come back from the night before), then texted Harry asking his whereabouts, every tap of the screen shooting through Louis’ core because he didn’t want to see Harry but he _had_ to see Harry—it was like taking the most beatifically scenic route to one’s death: a gorgeous demise.

He was merely sent an address in reply and so Louis began walking—he always begins walking—and found Harry smiling sweetly in a nearby park, bundled in ebony and silver and sporting a grin that warmed the cold white skies of the morning.

“I want to spend the day away from school. My only goal is to not step one foot onto its property until the sun sets,” he said, words curling into smoke and twisting through his reddened-by-cold, vibrant lips. He squinted against the sun that seemed both distant and too bright, curls tumbling softly in nipping breezes.

“It’s not even midday,” Louis replied, still hollow, still drained, still so in love with the unreachable diamond before him. Still so fucking pathetic, that he brought the damn note from that morning with him, tucked it back in his jean pocket. (Nobody had to know.)

“It gives us plenty of time to see beautiful things,” Harry grinned.

Louis cracked a smile, cracked the ice of his body and heart.

“It gives us plenty of time for adventures.” He cocked his head, catching the sunlight in his hands and shading Harry’s eyes. “And I’m quite the adventurer, you know. Don’t even need a treasure map to find treasure. See?” he said, waving his hands in the sun’s beams, the shadows of his hands flickering across Harry’s face. “Look at all this gold.”

And Harry smiled wider and Louis did too, and they took off as one and never looked back.

They spent the day scouring bookshelves in shops (Harry bought every single Oscar Wilde book he came across; “Healthy state of mind, that,” Louis had mocked, nodding towards the two, very large bags in Harry’s hands, stuffed mostly with the same book; “Books are food for the brain. I can’t think of anything healthier,” he replied with a sniff) and collecting pints in warm pubs as Harry scribbled their “adventures” in a freshly-purchased journal, smiling as he slid it across the surface of the table towards Louis so he could “add a different perspective—everything is always better in multicolor.”

They taunted the world and ignored the world and adored the world and Harry quoted Keats and Byron and Wilde and sometimes Poe and Louis scribbled their names on every surface he wasn’t allowed to, taking photo after photo so that, someday when he had no memories and lots of time, he could always, always remember the way Harry looked when he was Louis’ for one day. The way he grinned, holding his stuffed bags in his mittened hands, the way the silver of his scarf shimmered against pearl skin, the way the wind swept up his laughter and the velvet of his voice in great whirls that tufted his hair, and the way his profile burned black against the cityscape, framed in blinding sun.

The sun travelled across the sky until it began to fall, and they walked and walked and walked, drinking steaming cocoas along the riverbank and tucking their chins into their scarves, exchanging sips and wondering if rivers could ever get thirsty.

“Think she’d probably enjoy some cocoa,” Louis had said, tipping his cup and letting a quick splurt of chocolate silk drip into the water below. “All that mucky water’s got to get a bit boring to taste, hasn’t it?”

Harry laughed, mirroring the action.

“I think I hear her saying thank you,” Harry smiled, listening to the soft babbles of water hitting cement, and when Louis looked up, Harry’s eyes caught in the light, turning the world green.

“Let’s find a place we’ve never been to before,” Louis had said, voice catching. Harry met his eyes, calm and content, a wind-born flush burning his cheeks. “And after today, let’s never go there again.”

“So that we’ll always remember it together?” Harry asked happily, already backing into a different direction.

Louis nodded, heart wincing. Because it was all just so close, so potent. So barely out of reach.

“So it will be ours.”

And Harry nodded once before taking off with childlike laughter and Louis didn’t hesitate to grab his hand. A quick streak of surprise flitted through Harry’s eyes before it was replaced with mirth, and then, hand in hand, they discovered a tiny spot beneath a bridge, entwined with dead ivy and littered with washed up pebbles. It was small and slightly ominous and a bit crumbly, and it was theirs.

Afterward, when the moon had risen and the stars had begun to blink awake, they had roamed back to the school grounds, feet incredibly sore and aching, skin burning from the icy winds that never stopped assaulting them.

Louis hesitated as Harry made to climb the steps by the garden to where his rooms lay.

“You best warm your bones, Curly. Have some tea and slap on some hideous slippers and enjoy the rest of your night,” he said, heart thumping so loudly. And why?

Even in the blue dark, Louis could see Harry’s face fall.

“You’re not going to come with me?”

Thud, thud.

“I have my own flat, you know.”

“Oh. Yeah, yes, of course,” Harry had said, frowning and scuffing his toes against the ground. “Niall’s probably waiting for you.”

Thud.

Louis managed a scoff. “He probably just wants to cuddle some more.”

“Cuddle?” Harry repeated, frown deepening remarkably, a scowl beginning to form.

Thud, thud, thud.

“He’s a needy Irish lad. All he does is cuddle. But no matter. Because, as tempting as being trapped under his pasty dead weight is, I think I’d much rather spend the evening listening to you play the piano for me. Any song I like. That means the Spice Girls.” He pushed a cheeky smile onto his face.

And instantly, Harry brightened, dimmed the moon.

“Only if you sing as well.”

“There was really no other option.”

They climbed the steps, and that was that.

Together but separate. Happy but not in love. Close but…so fucking far, it made Louis’ lungs hurt to breathe.

And since then it’s been just like that.

The same. But different.

Peaceful and calm and happy and warm. But inescapable and miserable and taunting and searing.

Because with each tender look that Harry bestows upon Louis, Louis can almost pretend to know what it’s like to be loved by Harry. Properly loved. He can almost pretend that they’re more than what they are.

And it hurts too, too much.

And it only gets worse with time, as every single barrier inside Harry is removed, allowing Louis—and Louis alone—entrance.

Of course, it doesn’t help that Louis can’t stay away.

Every day, without fail, he arrives on Harry’s doorstep after his lectures, heart in hand and brain somewhere on the floor in a puddle.

“You’re here!” Harry will say as Louis walks in, delighted, sporting whatever ridiculous bow tie he’s picked for the day, offering a sample of whatever exotic cheese he’s obsessed with, playing whatever ridiculous record he can’t get enough of.

“I’m here,” Louis will grin in response, aiming to be cheeky but falling somewhere around ‘lovesick and broken’ as he toes off his shoes, never taking his eyes off of Harry, and always making a beeline for him, finding excuses to brush their shoulders and bump elbows and fingers.

“How was your day, my curly friend?” Louis’ voice asks as he wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders while he leads him to the window. And every touch is warm, and every word spoken feels like something.

“I had lunch with a pleasant-faced professor in a well lit place that smelled of gardenias and told a peer how underappreciated mustard yellow is as a color,” Harry replies, smiling down at Louis, tucked at his side perfectly and contentedly, as if he were important, outstanding, memorable. “It was perfectly remarkable.”

“I’m glad,” Louis grins, unable to depart from his place at Harry’s side. He can’t let go. “No drama, then?” And the real question is there, beneath the words.

Harry shakes his head, smile never wavering.

“No drama. I think he’s on his medication again. Should be quiet for awhile.”

And Louis nods, smiling.

Because they’ve begun to talk about things. Now that Louis knows, knows everything, they can speak about the subjects that they had skirted before, can bring the issues into the light of day. And they don’t always have to be so serious, so heavy and drenching. They can smile around the words and keep eye contact and it’s nice.

But there are those dark days, too.

And Louis expected them, understands the sleepless nights in Harry’s stare and the empty slackened lips. But even those are different now, too.

Because, one day, something different happened.

It was while they were in Harry’s rooms, lounging about and lazily finishing up their homework before meeting up with the lads for dinner at their favorite restaurant. Amidst happy chatter, some piano, and lots of tea, Harry received a phone call that furrowed his brow and pressed his eyes together tightly, lips pursing.

It was a fairly common occurrence—unsettling calls from probably Des that Harry would receive, causing him to mutter quietly into the phone as he’d depart for the other room, speaking just low enough for Louis not to hear. Only long after the call’s been ended would he emerge, always presenting himself with a calm expression, beaten into indifference.

So that day, as usual, Harry’s voice dropped upon answering, his low rumble carrying through the room as Louis frowned, immediately making to distract himself. He sat at Harry’s desk, focusing on not focusing on Harry’s voice, ignoring the pitter patter of worry inside and trying desperately not to eavesdrop. He took Harry’s quill, dipped it in the black, soupy ink, then began sprawling pointless black lines on the paper before him, watching the ink stain and bleed the paper. Permanently. Irreparably. Watched as it dried and solidified.

And then suddenly, something unexpected happened.

Harry emerged from his room, face very nearly crumpling, eyebrows knitted together tightly, phone still pressed to his ear. He didn’t look at Louis, not once. He just walked to him, silently, small step by small step, until he reached the desk.

Louis looked up from his chair, surprised and concerned, watching his face carefully, but Harry only perched on the edge of the surface, facing Louis’, left knee pressed against Louis’ right.

He continued to speak, voice low.

“Just don’t, yeah?” he said, sad. His eyes were closed.

Louis swallowed, watched his face, unsure of what this was, what was happening. He’d never been allowed to listen before.

“I can’t go home. I have school,” Harry said, and now his voice was pained but he schooled himself into control, swallowing and keeping his shoulders firm. “No, Dad.”

Louis’ heart lurched.

Unthinkingly, he took Harry’s hand in his own.

Harry didn’t let go.

“Yeah. Yeah I will, I promise. Just don’t do that anymore. You can’t do stuff like that.”

Pause.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I will.”

And another.

“I can’t. But—But yeah. I’m trying. I will. If I have an opportunity, I’ll come. I just have school—“ Harry bit his lip. “I need to go to school, Father.”

Louis squeezed his hand.

His heart stopped when Harry squeezed back.

“Okay, all right, fine, whatever. I just—no, dad, I’m not—okay, yeah. Yeah, all right. I w—hello? Hello?” And then Harry took the phone away from his ear, stared at it momentarily before tossing it onto the desktop.

“Everything all right?” Louis asked quietly, refusing to let go.

Harry stared at his phone where it lay, unmoving, before regarding Louis, eyes sad.

“No. He wants me to come back. He gets angry because he doesn’t understand why the world doesn’t revolve around him.” He sighed, eyes falling to their linked hands and pulling them into his lap.

Louis’ heart pounded the tiniest bit harder.

(Okay. That’s a lie. Louis’ heart pounded a fuckton of a lot harder.)

“I don’t always know what to say when he’s like that,” he continued quietly, gripping Louis’ hand. His voice was young, small.

Louis stared.

For the first time, Harry was actively seeking Louis for comfort. With no qualms. Just honest, open, comfort.

And for a second, a brief second that was as beautiful as it was painful, Louis could pretend that this was what they could have. That this was what they were. Pretend that they were together, a unit, a young and beautiful couple with the world at their feet and problems they will never have to shoulder alone.

“You don’t always have to,” Louis had said, eyes never peeling away from Harry’s face. “You’ve just got to do what you can, Harold. And in that way, it’ll always be the right thing.”

A smile flickered across Harry’s features as he studied him, hand warm against Louis’.

“Is that how _you_ think about things?”

Louis returned the smile, the universe warm around him. “It is, yeah.” He paused, Harry’s eyes practically fucking sparkling. It hurt. “That, and I can literally do no wrong because, _have_ you met me?”

A bark of laughter escaped Harry and then all of it was gone, the tension and the darkness that always clouds everything.

It was just gone.

And it’s those little things, those seemingly tiny advancements, that have made everything seem…more. Because Harry has begun to let Louis completely in, without even realizing it. Because he’s begun to seek Louis for comfort, for peace, for happiness.

He’s begun to seek Louis in general, really.

Because yes, one day, Harry also began actually _seeking_ Louis.

“I’m going to stay away from him today,” Louis had promised, head buried in his hands as he sat at the kitchen table, Niall strumming his guitar on the countertop. “Just one day. I need to just… Forget why I’m in love with him. Just for one day.”

Niall’s eyebrows shot through the air.

“You honestly think that’ll work?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis muttered, lips pressed against the palms of his hands, fingers digging into his eyeballs. “But I can pretend to think so. Let me pretend, Ireland. Don’t ruin this. Let me have this.”

“All right, all right,” he said, raising his hands in surrender, the guitar pick pinched between thumb and forefinger. “Just don’t crawl in my bed to cry tonight when you start missing him because you haven’t seen him in over 24 hours.”

Fuck.

He hates when Niall can predict the future.

“I hate you,” Louis grumbled.

“I know.”

And then there was a knock at the door, as if their life were a comedy sketch.

“Tell them to go away,” Louis groaned instantly. “I’m miserable and barely holding myself together. I’m rejected and alone and have nothing to say to anybody—“

“Fuck’s sake, Louis,” Niall sighed, fully exasperated as he hopped off the counter, making his way to the door. “You don’t got to be so fucking dramatic all the time, do you?”

Louis glared as he raised his head, hair mussed, eyes pink.

“You wouldn’t understand heartbreak, you simpleton.”

Niall rolled his eyes while opening the door.

And there was Harry. Holding a teapot. Bright, gleaming, ethereally beautiful Harry, hair catching in the wind. Wearing a pink collared shirt with a sprig of baby’s breath pinned to the pocket and powder gray trousers that gave the illusion that his legs lasted forever.

Fuck it all.

Louis wanted to be annoyed. He really did. He wanted to tell Harry to leave because he had too much homework that night or that he’d decided to go out with Niall (hah!) or help Liam on his project for the newspaper (double hah!) or just simply because they spend too much time together, are never apart, but he couldn’t. He totally, abso-fucking-lutely could not.

Because as much as it claws Louis’ brain and heart to always be at Harry’s side, being away from him is becoming next to impossible, and actually denying his company is still worse.

“Harry,” he breathed instead, as if waking up from a coma.

“Louis! There you are!” Harry beamed, already striding in and pressing a kiss to Niall’s forehead. “You didn’t come to my rooms. I’ve been looking everywhere. I brought tea! Would you like some? I’ve ordered it from Japan. It costs 1000 pounds,” he rambled happily, setting it down upon the counter. “It might be my new thing.”

“Of course,” Louis said dryly, but he felt his smile pull his cheeks and he just knew he was staring at Harry like he was made of glitter and crystal. “You have such sane, economically practical obsessions.”

“Oh, come now, Louis. I would never want to be practical.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Perish me!” he grinned crookedly. “That’s such a boring thing to be.”

And they smiled at each other and Louis’ stomach was somersaulting because Harry came to his flat because Harry wanted to be with Louis, too.

Because Louis was Harry’s friend.

God fuck shit fuck damn shit fuck.

Life is hard.

“Well. I best be going to practice now. The big race is coming up,” Niall smirked, eyes flicking between the two as he set down his guitar. “But have fun, kiddos. Text me if you want to go out with us later.”

“Us?” Harry asked.

Louis was still staring at him dazedly, barely aware that Niall was even speaking. Oops.

“Zayn, Liam, and I,” Niall said. “We’re going to some banquet? I don’t know. Supposed to be a good time, though. We’ll see.”

Harry nodded, that stupid fucking dimple that positively mocks Louis making a dashing appearance.

“I think we’re probably just going to stay in tonight. Louis?”

Louis nodded, stomach doing gymnastic leaps and bruising his insides.

“Uh-huh.”

“But thank you for the offer, Niall. You’re a gracious host.” Harry grinned cheekily, hip jutted where he stood at the counter, delicate pale hands still settled atop the teapot.

“I do what I can!” Niall said, tipping his invisible hat, and then he was gone and Louis’ heart fell on the floor because Harry looked at him with those soft green eyes.

“So,” he said, voice so low and so liquidy. “You ready to try this tea, then?”

Louis would have probably nodded just as vigorously if Harry had suggested Arsenic.

And so this has become Louis’ life.

Feeling just as much pain as he does pleasure. Excelling academically and maintaining an excellent group of friends and being in love with the one person in the world who is incapable of falling in love.

Life is really, really hard.

**

It’s been a good, solid week of Niall driving Louis batshit crazy.

“It’s going to be the best fuckin’ day ever,” he exclaims for the 7,023rd time, bumbling around the flat and gathering his practice clothes. “We’re gonna win that fucking race“—the big rowing match thing between the rival schools was less than a week away—“and then as soon as we wipe the victorious sweat from our brows, we’re gonna be fuckin’ living it up at the Brit Awards, winning every fuckin’ category we’re nominated for, and then partying until we piss blood for a week!”

Louis’ eyebrows flash upwards as he reads a text from Harry—he’s on his way over and he’s got chocolate pasta and almond wine with an outfit to match, apparently—and mumbles out a, “That honestly couldn’t sound less appealing.”

“You better be prepared, Tommo. Rest up now because it’s going to be the best fucking day of your life.”

“I feel like that’s not true.” He taps out a reply.

“Just wait,” he grins, throwing a towel over his head and walking towards the door to leave, practice bag in tow, just as a knock comes from the door. Louis smiles immediately, knowing it’s Harry. “Just you wait.”

**

The day that Niall has dubbed “The Most Fucking Brilliant Goddamn Day In Existence” begins well enough.

Everyone’s a bit tired still, having gone to Zayn’s rooms the night before and emptied a few bottles of champagne over too many toasts wishing Liam and Niall good luck on their highly anticipated match.

“Don’t fuck it up!” Louis had sung happily as he raised his glass, frothy liquid sloshing down his hand, and Harry laughed and it sounded like music.

They guzzled glass after glass, smiling and laughing because they could, Zayn pressing smiles and kisses into a giddy Liam’s neck, Niall thundering down upon the piano, shouting every word he spoke, and Harry pouting in Louis’ ear about how they absolutely must wear matching outfits for the occasion.

“But Louis,” he whined, holding onto Louis’ arm, face ornery and spoilt, “It’s the biggest match of the year! They can’t possibly compete well if they feel we haven’t dressed our best.”

“Curly, I’m not wearing a onesie,” Louis repeated, sighing and pushing his fringe away, fighting off the blinding smile that was threatening to emerge with every last bit of strength left within him.

“That doesn’t make sense. Nobody says that. How could somebody say that?” Harry was full on pouting. Lip jutted and everything.

Louis crumbled instantly.

But only on the inside.

“Because I don’t want to look like I’m 9 months old. I’ll coordinate whatever else with you, but I’m not going to wear what is, essentially, a sleeping bag with feet.”

“There are arms, too.”

“Not the point.”

“Can we at least wear yellow? Because it’s spring. Yellow is the best color for spring.”

“Green is a nice color for spring.”

“Don’t be tacky, Louis. We’re going to wear yellow.”

“I never agreed to this.”

“Louis!” Harry whined again, and Louis laughed as Harry tugged on his jumper with frustration.

“All right, you sap. We’ll wear yellow. But only because it compliments my skin tone so nicely.”

Harry smiled, eyes bright and eyelashes soft and clustered.

“Of course it does. You were made for yellow. Now, sit with me. I want to hear Zayn sing.”

And so they did.

Afterward, when the rest had retired and Harry was still bouncing on his heels, wide awake and eager, they embarked on a night walk. Just around the school grounds. Just for a little while.

“My father’s probably not going to go to the awards tomorrow night,” Harry said, budding grass crunching beneath his gray, sparkling boots that glimmered in the moonlight. “He’s not doing so well lately. Won’t leave the house. Barely eats. Breaks a lot of furniture.” A wry smile appears on Harry’s lips. “His table manners aren’t exactly in check.”

“Doesn’t he have to, though? I thought the song was being performed,” Louis said with a frown, studying Harry closely.

He shook his head. “They cancelled it awhile ago. Couldn’t rely on Des Styles, could they?”

Louis bit his cheek at the tone of Harry’s words—a bit bitter, a bit sad.

“How has he been to you? How’s he been treating you?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to bite his cheek.

“When I visit him he tries to attack me,” he says slowly, after a long pause. “He’s afraid because he doesn’t know who I am. Doesn’t, like, recognize me. It’s like he’s so far gone within himself that he just…forgets everybody else. It’s like he caters to his demons. Or something. I don’t know.” Harry’s voice was soft, lightly uncomfortable. He chewed his lip.

“What are you going to do when term’s over?” Louis asked gently. He never took his eyes away from Harry.

“Go home.”

“Harry.”

“I’m not leaving him, Louis.”

“You’ve said yourself that it’s hard.”

“I’m all he has.”

“And you can continue to be his, but you can do it in a safer way! Get him some in-home help! Hire a nurse or a whatever. Let him be at home with someone who is _trained_ to handle him and live your own life, Harold. Stop getting swept up in his shadows.”

“I’m sick of talking about this,” Harry frowned. “Let’s do something. Do you want to drink wine under the stars? Wine tastes better in the spring.”

“Harry…” Louis sighed, shaking his head. Because Harry needed to _listen_.

And he needed to stop fake-wooing Louis with wine and stars and all that evil, tempting crock of shit.

“I only want to have fun,” Harry sighed in response, as if it were that simple, as if the corners of his eyes weren’t crinkled with weight. He scowled at the sky, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, the gold buttons glinting through the darkness.

“It’s okay to, like, feel things, android. To feel _emotion_ ,” Louis teased, but everything about him was still gentle. “It’s okay to be sad. Okay to be happy too, you know.” He nudged Harry’s ribs with a smile until he looked down at him, his scowl instantly transforming into a matching quirk of the lips.

“I can be happy,” he said, the words dipped in tar. His dark curls clustered against his pale neck and his eyes became warm and lidded, teetering on amused. “I’m happy when I’m with you.”

And Louis’ smile quieted, his blood jamming to a standstill.

Ouch.

Ouch and…beautiful. Yes.

“You make me happy, too,” Louis said immediately, so breathless and so brittle from the perfect poison that is Harry Styles.

Harry eyed him, almost too closely, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to believe him or not, until suddenly his lips split into a grin that overcame his face and, suddenly, the sun was pouring through Louis’ soul.

“Good,” he said, before bending over and plucking a baby cluster of flowers from the cool earth. He straightened, handing them over to Louis with a quiet smile. “Here. Have spring.”

And Louis beamed, positively fucking _beamed_ as he accepted the tiny bundle, keeping them locked in a tightly clenched fist so that they wouldn’t escape, before extracting a single flower. With a grin that felt like it was actually ripping his skin, Louis handed it back to Harry.

“Share spring with me?”

Harry’s answering smile was breathtaking.

So they walked back, Louis escorting Harry to his door, carrying spring in their hands and matching smiles, before Louis finally made his way home.

He’d fallen asleep brushing the tips of his fingers to the flowers on his bedside table with one hand, the other clutching Harry’s goodnight text to his chest.

And now they’re all dressed and ready to go—Louis wearing a yellow cardigan and slacks with a white polo, Harry wearing a yellow embroidered blouse and tailored trousers, a daffodil tucked into his curls which has Louis reciting love sonnets in his head—gathered together on one side of the river bank to see the lads off on their course amidst clusters of students and journalists and camera crews.

“Fucking hell, it’s crowded here,” Louis shouts and Zayn smiles proudly.

“It’s only going to get worse,” he says without raising his voice, yet is somehow able to be heard, waving towards Liam who is about to climb into the eight, Niall—who is literally blowing kisses to the crowd—following close behind him.

Bodies bump into them, already cheering and shouting, holding beer cans and water bottles in their hands.

Louis looks over to Harry to remark on a boy nearby who seems to be drinking out of a candle, and falls speechless when he sees Harry staring out at the spectacle calmly, eyes squinted, clutching a parasol that has seemingly appeared out of thin air.

A fucking _parasol_.

Sweet Jesus.

“What on earth is that?” Louis asks, very nearly mortified.

“A parasol. The sun is too assaulting,” Harry responds without a beat, eyes still taking in the scene before him with separated control.

Louis sighs, shaking his head.

“Of course it is.”

A few more minutes pass by, filled with the sound of announcers warming up their vocals and Zayn lighting cigarette after cigarette as the crowds push around them, and suddenly, before Louis knows what’s happening—because he might have been admiring the way the parasol flecks bits of sun over Harry’s delicate cheeks, shading the rest of him in gray—the race has begun.

“GO LIAM!” Zayn shouts, cupping hands around his mouth, and it may be the only time Louis’ ever heard him shout.

“GO LADS! SHOW ‘EM WHO’S BOSS!” Louis bellows, pumping a fist in the air, doing his best to appear enthusiastic.

Rowing was never really his thing.

Neither, it appears, is it Harry’s, because rather than at least feigning excitement like Louis, he’s begun to just meander along the riverside, twirling his parasol and smiling brilliantly at everyone who approaches him.

And Louis tries not to watch because he has no claim over Harry and absolutely no right to be jealous, but he can’t help but at least keep his peripherals on him as Zayn sidles through the crowd to get a better view.

Body after body approaches Harry, squealing and laughing and flirting and just…pissing Louis the fuck off.

But each time, Harry only smiles like the Rembrandt painting that he is before bowing graciously and meandering forwards, the smile never leaving his face.

It settles Louis a bit, gives him a creeping warmth because Harry really has been so happy lately, hasn’t he? Just happy. Plain and simple.

“I take it you’re not here for the Boat Race, then,” a voice says beside Louis says and he jumps, whirling around and meeting with a vaguely familiar handsome face.

“Well,” Louis says, assessing the boy’s grey eyes and windswept chestnut hair and very nice shoulders, “let’s just say watching ‘Titanic’ will probably be the closest thing to water sports I’ll ever attempt. And even _that_ has disastrous results.” 

The boy laughs, a little cuttingly. Familiar.

“Are you one of those who cries as soon as Jack gets deposited in the ocean bed?”

“Yes, I am one of those who empathizes with the vast plethora of emotions surrounding the scene where Jack is tragically lost to the sea, yes,” Louis sniffs, and the boy laughs again.

“Louis, right?” he asks, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Okay. So he must be more familiar than Louis realizes.

“Very right,” he responds, forcing his brain to work because _who is this?_

“The look you’re giving me suggests you don’t remember me,” the guy says with a half-smile.

Correct.

“Erm—“

“No, it’s fine,” he laughs, holding up his hands. “We weren’t exactly in the most, shall we say, aware state of mind, when we met. I can forgive you for forgetting a few things. Or everything, really.” He smiles easily, his jaw strong and ever so lightly flecked with stubble.

A stirring begins in Louis’ stomach. A creeping suspicion.

“You’re not from…that party?” Louis asks, fearing he already knows the answer. And what are the chances? What is his life? “That house party?”

The guys smiles, lips caught in his teeth.

Louis feels a bit sick, to be honest.

“Are you—did we--?”

The guy’s smile grows and oh yes, there it is—the sound of Louis’ life playing a cruel trick on him.

“Oh. Well. Hello,” Louis says awkwardly, wondering where the fuck Zayn is and why the fuck he isn’t at Louis’ side. Or Harry. Where the fuck is Harry for that matter?

He has such shitty friends.

The guy laughs again—he laughs too much—and shields the sun from his eyes, looking out over the river.

“There it is. I’m Romeo, I’m studying to be an engineer…?” he says, as if to jog Louis’ memory and nope, Louis definitely does not remember even exchanging words with the boy that sucked him off in a dark corner of a strange house, let alone catching his name.

Maybe it was said post-coital. Louis never remembers anything post-coital.

“Sorry, mate. I’m a bit pathetic when it comes to holding my liquor,” Louis smiles apologetically, but it feels tight and he’s not really in the mood to pretend to like strangers, sexual history or no.

Romeo nods (and what is that name? Louis would have remembered that name), rubbing a hand to the back of his neck before looking up at Louis through his eyelashes. He really is quite fit.

Too bad Louis’ ruined for anybody else.

“I won’t keep you,” he says amiably, but there’s a hint of regret in his tone. “I just wanted to say hi.” He shrugs.

And now Louis feels like an ass.

Shit.

As Sir Romeo makes to leave, Louis rests a hand upon his forearm quickly, before he can change his mind.

“Hey, wait. No rush. I’m just…standing here pretending to be interested in eight lads thrusting their oars into a river. I can use any entertainment I can get,” he smiles and, okay, so he’s doing this. He’s going to play nice and earn his gold star for the day.

Yay.

Romeo grins, turning back easily to stand closer to Louis. “To be honest, when you put it like that, I can’t imagine how anybody _wouldn’t_ be interested.”

Louis actually laughs at that.

“True. But that’s only because I have a way with words.”

Flirting. Oops.

“You have a way with a lot of things, if I remember correctly,” Romeo smirks and his eyes briefly flash over Louis.

“Which you probably don’t, to be fair,” Louis says, unaffected.

And Romeo laughs again, moving closer to Louis and settling a hand gently on his back.

“And he’s funny, too!” he comments to nobody, smile very…purposeful. Blinding. A little annoying.

Not as beautiful as others’.

Louis nods, wondering how much longer the race is going to last.

“I’ve got a very large list of admirable attributes. Shall we go through them all?”

“Absolutely,” Romeo replies, voice just a notch lower, and Louis turns to look at him as he crowds still closer, their bodies bumping together and the look in this guy’s eyes screaming something far too intimate for what Louis feels.

He’s about to take a step back, maybe excuse himself, when suddenly:

“Louis?”

And Louis whips around like lightning at that voice, to see Harry, parasol hanging limply at his side, face etched in…well. Horror, one could say. His face is contorted, his eyebrows pushed together, his lips open and beginning to twist. The daffodil still sits in his hair, mockingly bright and soft.

“Harry,” he greets, relieved.

But also…confused.

Because Harry is still staring at him like _that_ and he might know why, maybe, but…that wouldn’t make sense.

Harry’s eyes flick between Louis and Romeo before settling back on Louis. And then a childish, adamant glare takes over his face.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, glaring at Louis. His breath seems to have picked up, his chest rising and falling harshly. “Come on,” Harry says, taking hold of Louis’ hand and tugging. “ _Come on_.”

Shocked, Louis lets himself be dragged away, waving farewell to a glum Romeo over his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” Louis asks, startled. “Is the race even over?”

“It’s just a boat race,” Harry snaps, scowling and stalking towards the gardens. “I don’t want—I want to leave. Can we please leave?”

“Yeah, ‘course we can,” Louis says, feeling jumbled inside as he tries to catch glimpses of Harry’s face.

What is happening?

What just happened?

Could Harry be jealous? Surely he couldn’t actually be jealous? Not when it was he himself that desired a friend in Louis and nothing more. Is he taking him to get ready for the Brits tonight? Does he need help picking out an outfit?

Fuck.

Harry’s totally jealous. Isn’t he?

Louis’ mind pelts question after question at itself as Harry drags Louis up the stairs and to the door to his rooms, pushing it open as soon as they reach it (Louis makes a note to scold Harry for _once again_ forgetting to lock it) and clambering inside, finally letting go of Louis’ hand as he shuts the door.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, following Harry with his eyes as he stalks around the room, dissembling his outfit and dropping the parasol to the floor harshly. Frustration pushes against his teeth. “ _Harry_.” His voice his hard, insistent.

At that, Harry stills, hands dropping from where they’d tossed the daffodil onto the mantle. He heaves a long sigh, his shoulders loosening, eyes fluttering before they close. Standing in the middle of the room, he brings his hands up to his face, palms pressed against eye sockets.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, voice odd, keeping his hands over his eyes. “I’m not sure why—I don’t know what’s wrong.” He sighs again, letting his hands fall, and the fair skin around his eyes is mottled, pink and blotchy.

Louis softens.

Harry is obviously out of his realm of comfort and understanding.

Louis can understand that, can sympathize with it.

Without a word he walks up to Harry, placing a hand on his back and rubbing soothing circles.

“You all right?” he asks, tilting his head to inspect his face.

Harry doesn’t look at him, instead focuses on the ground.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

A moment passes, one where Louis’ hand keeps up its ministrations and Harry’s eyelids begin to droop.

“I do…” Harry’s soft, cracked voice suddenly begins, “I do want to talk to you about something, though. Something I’ve been thinking about. Last night and this morning.”

Louis’ hand stills.

Oh god.

Could it be?

Is Harry in love with him? Has it finally happened? Have the gods taken pity on Louis in his sorry, emotional state and actually bestowed upon him the greatest gift he could ever dare to receive?

Is Harry about to tell him as much?

Oh please, oh please, oh please.

(Divine intervention would be great right now.)

“Oh?” Louis asks, struggling to keep his tone light.

Harry nods, rubbing at his eyes again before leaving Louis’ side, causing his hand to drop. He walks over to the windows overlooking the gardens and sits upon the beautifully upholstered couch, hand linked and elbows resting on his knees. He stares at the ground.

“I’ve decided to move out,” he says quietly, lashes splitting his cream skin. “From my father. I’m going to do as you say—hire someone who knows what to do. I’ll interview extensively, of course. I’ll get someone who I know he’ll connect with and. And it will be better.” He looks up, simultaneously sad and hopeful, eyes wide. “It will be better, right?”

Louis stares, hands at his sides.

Oh.

Okay.

This wasn’t…what he was expecting but… But oh!

His gears begin to kick into life as he computes what Harry has just said, immediately rushing over to him and sitting beside him on the couch, relief flooding him completely.

“Of course it will be,” he says gently, caressing Harry with his eyes, hesitant to touch. “It will be better. I’ll make sure of it.” He half-smiles.

Harry stares for a moment before quirking his lip, just slightly. He studies Louis, eyes flitting across his face as if looking for answers.

“Why are you so good to me?” he suddenly asks, affectionate and low, eyes seeming to marvel at Louis. “Why are you my friend?”

Louis’ chest pangs like a gong.

Shall he name off the list? Does he have all week?

He searches the confines of his mind for an answer before he settles with a simple:

“Because you’re you.”

Harry’s smile widens and softens even more, if possible.

It creates the next great war within Louis.

Elation vs. Despair

“Nobody treats me like you do,” Harry says quietly, after a moment. “Nobody _looks_ at me like you do.”

And.

Oh fuck.

Louis tries not to recoil, his insides immediately sucked dry.

So it _is_ obvious.

His pathetic, soppy, gooey, weakening love for Harry is written all over his face like the joke that he is and Harry sees it. He sees every emotion Louis feels and he _knows_. He knows and Louis has nothing left hidden and Harry doesn’t _care_ about any of it, doesn’t feel the same way back because he can’t, because he was raised the most fucked up way possible and has lived the most fucked up life ever and…

And Louis feels like an idiot.

An idiot who wants to hide from right now and _this_ and what’s happening. It’s just suddenly too much.

He sits back, putting a fraction more distance between himself and Harry, who frowns, his eyes inspecting Louis’ face closely.

“Louis?” he inquires, confused.

Oh god.

Louis has to look away. This is suddenly too much. Harry sees too much.

Sees too much without caring enough. Without caring the way Louis so desperately wants.

Silence passes between them as Louis suffers through internal devastation and panic, refusing to let himself leave but refusing to let himself open up for Harry any further—Harry, who keeps studying him like he were deciphering the Rosetta Stone.

Still, Louis remains silent.

“You’ve been so sad lately,” Harry murmurs, the mournful words breaking the peace, his eyes still boring into Louis and still being too much, yet too little. “And I can’t figure out why.”

Louis tenses.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Is it because of me? Is it too much? Me?” Harry’s quiet voice rumbles, small and sad and fuck fuck _fuck_.

“No,” he insists immediately, turning back to Harry because fuck it—he’d rather shred himself alive than ever have Harry question himself. “Not at all. You will never be too much, Harry. Never. No matter what, whatever’s going on with me, however fucked up it all gets inside, I still—“ He cuts off, swallowing. His hands are shaking, balled up into fists on his knees.

Fuck.

This is just…so difficult. So fucking difficult.

And Louis isn’t even completely sure why.

Harry swallows, watching him with fear in his eyes. Like a child about to cry, watching their parent leave.

Louis closes his eyes, pushing through the heaviness that is now weighing down every air passageway.

“Harry,” he says, voice calm, steering the conversation back to what matters. “I am so, so proud of you for making the decision to move away from your father. So proud. And I will be here for you through the whole process. If you need somewhere to stay or if you need help looking for something or if you just…just need someone to make you a sick cup of tea and eat all your biscuits—Harry laughs, relieved, softening—“I’ll be right here. Beside you. On this couch. Or wherever else you need me to be. You don’t have to do anything alone anymore, all right? Because no matter what you’re trying to tackle, even though you are strong enough to conquer it all, several times over even, I will always be here to supply you with whatever you need, to shoulder whatever you can’t carry, to fucking fill you with whatever you’ve lost. All right?”

He might be telling himself this as much as he’s telling Harry. He doesn’t even know anymore.

Harry listens, unmoving and quiet, eyes on the ground, head bent

There’s a steady silence, punctuated only by the distant screams of the boat race, and Louis thinks he sees the glimmer of a tear sliding down Harry’s cheek before he suddenly brings his hands up to cover his face, head bowed low and never emitting a sound.

The moments drag by, Louis breathing raggedly, his heart beating irregularly as he watches Harry sit, head in hands, wondering if he’s crying and why he shields his tears from the world, from Louis.

It’s while he’s lost, staring at Harry’s beautiful tragedy, that he forgets himself.

Unthinkingly, blindly, he brings his hand carefully to Harry’s neck. His hand connects with the cool skin and, before he can question himself, he begins rubbing the soft flesh there with his thumb, eyes never blinking, breath barely escaping.

He feels the release of Harry’s muscles first, his entire body relaxing into the touch.

Then, so slowly he barely registers what’s even happening, he watches as Harry’s hand moves from his face to slide through his hair. It slides over the top of his bent head, surfing through waves of curls, slowly, slowly, before the tips of his fingers are suddenly brushing against Louis’ thumb, stilling any and all of his movements.

And Louis stops breathing.

There’s a pause, where Louis remains frozen, not daring to break the fragility of the moment, and Harry’s fingers remain rested upon Louis’ thumb, soft and unassuming. Just there. Louis can’t see his face—his other hand still blocking it from view—but it doesn’t fucking matter because now Harry’s hand is moving again, achingly slow, to slide further down, fingers finding their way to clutch around Louis’ hand, fingers entwined and gripping on so gently and it’s just… _different_.

It feels different.

And Louis still isn’t breathing.

And then Harry stands up.

Startled, Louis blinks, his hand dropping to the cushions as Harry pushes himself away and towards the windows, remaining silent. His face is stormy, expression hard, and Louis could only really describe it as the personification of inner conflict.

Something is happening beneath the surface of Harry.

Something big.

Something…that may be similar to what is happening to Louis.

And Harry might be just as overwhelmed as Louis but probably even more so because he doesn’t _understand_ it.

And maybe…maybe Harry needs some guidance.

Maybe Harry needs to just. _Know_.

Maybe he needs to know like Louis already knows.

Fuck.

Shakily, Louis stands, his heart ready to beat clean out of his chest and fly across the room, splattering the walls. His knees knock, his palms sweat, and his breath is gone, so very gone, but he ignores it all as he makes his way towards Harry, whose back is strong and silent.

“Harry,” he whispers as he approaches him, and he allows himself this moment.

This one moment.

Just to see.

Just because Harry might not know. Because Harry might need to know, want to know.

Harry doesn’t move towards Louis nor does he move away, his eyes dark and his breath quick. There’s a light tremor in his fingers, a rigidity in his neck, marked by a prominent vein. His eyes are fixed on the windows and the world outside, but it’s a sightless stare, his pulse thumping and it only spurs Louis more.

Because Harry feels it, too.

He does.

“Harry,” he whispers again and this time he crawls his hand to Harry’s waist, securing it in his shirt and feeling his weight against his arm.

Harry’s breath hitches.

It fucking hitches.

And Louis is seeing stars he’s so fucking nervous and terrified and _thrilled_.

Still more confident, he brings his other hand to Harry’s cheek as he places himself directly in front of him, blocking out the windows, blocking out everything else.

Harry’s eyebrows pinch as Louis ever so carefully guides his face towards himself, to catch his eye.

Harry resists, terrified eyes still staring over Louis’ shoulder.

“Please look at me,” Louis whispers, quiet as a breath. “Harry. Please just look at me.”

There’s so much blood rushing through Louis’ ears as we waits.

As Harry’s eyes remain fixed outside, creased and frightened and ready to bolt. He’s balancing on a precipice and Louis isn’t sure which way he’s going to fall, but he waits for Harry to look at him, he waits and waits and waits.

And then he finally does.

Those eyes, those eyes that started all of this, slide over to Louis’ eyes and, click!

Click.

It all clicks together.

Because suddenly Louis isn’t as terrified as he is _inspired_. One look in Harry’s eyes—that have become so familiar, so comforting and present—has Louis filled with a newfound confidence and assurance, an overwhelming feeling that everything, for just this moment, is perfect in the universe, is _right_.

This is how it’s _supposed_ to go.

So he kisses him without thinking.

Without a moment to shy away or fuck it up or crumble to dust, he pulls Harry’s face to his as he lunges forward, heart in his throat, and Harry’s startled intake of breath—because yes, the fucker _gasps_ —opens his mouth and smashes the lightbulbs of Louis’ brain.

There’s a solid five seconds of just Louis.

Just Louis pouring his feelings into Harry’s frozen, open mouth and it feels as though he’s resuscitating him, breathing life into his stilled lungs, giving all that he has to Harry because he has nothing else but the air he breathes and he wants to give it all to Harry, every last breath.

And then suddenly Harry’s shocked into life, like a bolt of electricity’s been cracked into his bones.

Immediately, without warning, without transition, he suddenly grips at Louis, hands bunching into Louis’ shirt and tugging him closer, closer, closer, mouth beautifully soft and sighing (of course, with that fucking 8th wonder of a mouth).

Louis can’t see, can’t think, can’t feel, can’t breathe, is completely overwhelmed by it all, by Harry, by Harry’s softness and Harry’s scent and Harry’s touch and _Harry_ because Harry is kissing him back and he’s kissing Harry and everything bad that’s ever happened to Louis suddenly doesn’t fucking matter because this makes up for it all. The feeling of Harry’s mouth moving like poetry over his own, effortless and real and flowing, warm and slick and bloody _wonderful_ , his hands stretching the fabric of Louis’ cardigan, his toes bumping his own, his hair tickling Louis’ cheek.

Louis’ hands get lost, he can’t find them, can’t even feel them, but they’re not on Harry’s face anymore and wherever they are, Harry must approve because he doesn’t make to stop and Louis never wants to, never ever.

He’s dizzy now, gasping and dry and reeling but he still clutches, still steals back the breath he gave to Harry, and they’re against the window now it seems, Harry’s back pressed against cold glass that’s begun to fog from their puffing breaths and Louis’ just found his hands. They’ve managed to find the buttons on Harry’s shirt.

Good job, hands. Good hands.

They’re unbuttoning each button carefully and Louis can’t even really feel himself doing it, it’s just a dream, but his mouth is still gasping into Harry’s and there’s sunlight and the smell of home and Harry’s making the softest, sweetest noises that only Louis can hear and he’s almost done with those goddamn yellow buttons—thank fuck—and is now beginning to feel the hot press of Harry’s hands making their way down his stomach and to the button of his trousers—

When suddenly Louis’ mouth is cold, his hands empty.

He blinks awake, trying to assess what just happened as he stares out the smudged, foggy glass of the window. Startled, he whips around.

Harry’s panting, eyes blazen and wild, his lips red and wet like fresh lava and his clothes are crumpled, thanks to Louis. He’s wiping his mouth, his face white, whiter than it should be, and he’s taking frantic steps back, shaking his head.

…What?

What’s happening?

“Harry?” Louis croaks, dazed and barely conscious, still drowning in adrenaline and _Harry_.

“No,” Harry manages, rough and wrecked, shaking his head frantically. “No. Not with you, Louis. Not with you,” he says, and _what??_

Louis can’t catch his breath.

Neither can Harry.

Why isn’t there more air?

Harry must have taken it with him.

“Not with you,” Harry says one last time before he practically flings himself out the door, slamming it behind him, and leaving Louis alone, framed in the window, suffocating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISN'T THE END.
> 
> You guys wanted it, so here it is. :) 
> 
> The song that encapsulates this entire chapter and the next is Kodaline's "All I Want". Not even kidding, that song inspired most of this ending, and a lot of this story. Listening to it gives me feelings and images. This is what they were. Listen to it! It might make you feel things, too. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and being so wondrous! Hopefully the last chapter will be this week. Then, after that one, we have the epilogue left! Yayyy!!
> 
> big love, kiddos. (mizzwilde for the tumblrrr)


	33. XXXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis confesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE. Just want to start off with that! :)
> 
> Thank you Tara, J, and Becki for being helpful, beautiful people. For reading my rambles and my ALL CAPS MESSAGES and just reading this too-long, too-emotional story. You're marvelous. I adore you. :))

_Not with you._

The courtyard is a blur around him.

_Not with you._

His feet pound the grass in dull clumps, smack against stone and echo in time to:

_Not with you._

Almost-warm air slaps his face, assaults his hair.

_Not with you._

Clusters of voices ooze in and out of the blood pumping in his ears.

_Not with you._

He sees the door to his flat coming into view, he feels the air ripping his lungs apart, hears the fragile pounding of what’s left inside.

The keys fumble and clank but they fit in the lock and he pushes it open with his shoulder as hard as he can because he just _needs_ to go inside, he needs this door to open _right now_ and he needs to _leave_.

He wants to go _home_.

That’s all that he wants.

That’s all he can think about.

Well.

Not all.

_Not with you, Louis._

He thrusts every visible article of clothing into his bag (and there are a lot—he’s never pretended to be anything but a slob) as he blinks back the tears that are already soaking his face, making him shiver under their wet, accusing trails. He locates his iPod and his phone and his jacket and his Toms with the frayed rips on the sides, his lips burning with memory.

Everything’s burning.

Everything’s cold.

He’s dying in fire and ice and yes, he has a right to be dramatic right now because his fucking soul is splitting apart and he has never, ever felt this horrible before.

Maybe some people aren’t made for love. Maybe some people aren’t strong enough.

Swallowing his choked sobs and humiliation and fucking memories—the feel of Harry’s soft hair and softer skin and the deep, rumbling purrs that escaped his throat as he pulled Louis to him, _pulled_ Louis—that burn, memories that send fresh sobs and heart constrictions and strike Louis, making him wince. He hauls his bag over his shoulder, not even pausing to scribble a note for Niall—who is, thankfully, still at the boat race, celebrating his sure win. He can just text him later when everything isn’t so raw and fresh and bleeding, barely held together by broken strings.

Without a second glance or thought—thoughts are so _painful_ right now—he shuts the door, heaving soft shuddering breaths, eyes red-rimmed, before padding outside into the mocking sun that feels too warm against his glistening cheeks.

He hears wafts of the announcer’s voice, hears the thrum of a happy crowd, and takes off for the nearest train station.

**

When he arrives home, he does something he hasn’t done in years.

Louis hugs his mum, no introduction necessary.

“Louis?” she blurts, completely taken off guard, unsure of what to do with her hands momentarily before wrapping them tentatively around him. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

And he’s crying again (or has he just never stopped?) as he holds her tightly in the entryway, willing himself the capacity to speak.

“I just needed to get away,” he manages, voice muffled by the cotton of her shirt, and closes his eyes tighter, sending more juicy fucking tears rolling down his fucking cheeks. He’s surprised his skin hasn’t begun to prune at this rate. He’s so bitter.

He feels her nod as she continues to hold him, not saying another word, just petting his hair like a _mother_ , and that’s what Louis needs. This is what he needs right now.

Home.

Comfort.

And maybe. His mum.

“It’s good to see you,” she says eventually, rubbing his back soothingly. “Even if you are in a right state.”

Louis sniffles.

A ‘right state’. Hah.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Good to be home,” he says in response, voice crackling.

And it is good. She may drive him up a fucking wall and be a selfish loon and they may have their mountain-sized pile of issues, but Louis’ mum is still Louis’ mum and… And right now he needs that.

“Come on in, Boo,” she coaxes gently, beginning to lead him forwards, never releasing her hold. “I’ll make us some tea. You can tell me all about it.”

When Louis makes to protest, she shushes him, a small smile on her lips.

“I’ll listen this time. I promise,” she says.

And he thinks she means it.

So, together, they walk into the kitchen and Louis can feel himself breathe a little bit again.

**

He’d had a good talk with his mum.

She’d listened, just like she promised, and she nodded where she was supposed to, looked sympathetic at the right times, and laughed at Louis’ wry humor that managed to squeeze through the cracks of his desolation.

It was nice.

It was new.

He felt even better when his sisters came home, squealing in surprise and delight upon seeing him sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes tired and puffy, hair askew, clutching his sixth mug of tea in a ratty jumper.

“Louis! You came home!” Charlotte squeals, damn near bowling him over as she flings herself at his seated figure.

He laughs in a huff, inhaling the wisps of dirty blonde hair that have fallen out of her ponytail. The fur lining the hood of her jacket tickles his nose, prickles his left eye a bit.

“Good to see you too, kid,” he smiles.

He feels their mum watching them and he glances up to see her smiling, standing by the stovetop and waiting for the kettle. There’s an oddly emotional look caught in her eyes, a bit distant, as if she were lost reading a book or watching a movie, but it’s a good smile that paints her face, a fond smile, and Louis warms at that because this all feels _good_.

So, naturally, he feels yet another batch of tears coming.

Excellent. He’s becoming a weeper. Splendid.

He only pulls himself out of his revelry when tiny feet begin padding up to him, pulling Charlotte away and immediately climbing upon him.

“Louis!” they squeal as one, eyes bright and clear and unbroken.

“Well, hello,” he grins, not quite whole, mussing up pigtails and kissing red, blotchy cheeks that feel like the skin of peaches. “How are my girls?”

And they all beam at him with endless adoration and missing baby teeth and they’re a mix of pink and blue and Velcro shoes and it’s all he needs right now, it’s all he wants.

“Good to have you home,” his mum says again as she watches, and, yep, she’s getting emotional as she stares at the scene, unaware of the kettle steaming behind her insistently, beginning to screech.

He doesn’t even nod to her that it’s ready, doesn’t impatiently point it out. Just holds her smile and feels yet another fucking wave of emotion and a gratefulness for his mum that he hasn’t felt in years as he feels his sisters jab at his ribs to get his attention and, yes.

This is all he wants right now. This is all he wants.

**

When Louis goes to text Niall as he dumps his bag in his room, he notes, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that Harry hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. Most definitely doesn’t even know he’s left for home.

 Why would he?

He swallows past the gravel that’s begun to coat his throat, begins to tap out a half-hearted message.

_‘Good luck at the Brits tonight. Not gonna b able to make it. Tell u later.’_

It’s about eleven seconds before Niall responds.

_‘r u fucking serious??! Where r u?? I’ll come get u’_

_‘home’_

_‘the fuck Tommo? It’s the most fucking brilliant goddam day in existence tho u cunt!’_ And then: _‘whats wrong’_

Louis can’t bring himself to answer that right now. So he doesn’t, instead tapping out a _‘Have fun tonight ireland. Send me pics’_ and tossing the phone onto his nightstand before leaving the room, leaving it all behind as he makes his way back to his family.

**

Stan comes over for dinner.

It’s nice, it’s fun, they all laugh and the girls cling to him at every opportunity they get during dinner, giggling and standing by his chair, sauce flecking their cheeks. He indulges them—he always does—and Louis and his mum smile, just watch and laugh occasionally.

They have dessert while they play video games, Louis’ mum washing up in the kitchen (at her insistence), and the girls beg to play intermittently between showing off their various toys and singing for attention.

Stan grins, pinches Louis’ cheek.

“You should come home more often,” he says, and Louis laughs, bites at his hand.

“Maybe I’ll just stay home,” he wants to say jokingly, but there’s a thinly veiled edge there, and Stan’s eyes falter momentarily, regarding Louis closely.

“Yeah, maybe,” Stan replies, and when Louis looks away, swallowing, he still feels his eyes on him.

**

Their shoes scuff the pavement as they walk.

“So you just left?” Stan asks, brows pinched, watching Louis closely. “Didn’t try to call him or anything?”

The sun is setting and the sky’s becoming overcast, and Louis’ hands are stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket. He’s just word-vomited it all to Stan, everything, told him all about Harry and all about Harry-and-Louis and all about the dead ends and the almosts and he feels so fucking exhausted from it, just wants to be done with the conversation now that it’s only started.

“He hasn’t tried calling _me_ , either.” His voice carries in the breeze, breaks in the wind.

“Have you checked?”

He studies the cracks that pass beneath his feet, the little blades of grass that struggle to grow there. Louis carefully avoids stepping on them.

“I don’t need to. He won’t call.”

“He might.”

“He won’t.”

Stan falls silent, sighs eventually, and knocks into Louis’ side.

“He’ll come around. He always does, from the sounds of it.”

Louis bites down hard on the corner of his lips, just because. He never does that, probably never has even once, but he does it now because there’s nothing else he can do. Just bites the corners of his lips as they walk, lets it sting.

“He sounds like he really loves you, you know,” Stan adds, a bit softer, and at that Louis has to close his eyes.

“No, Stan,” he says when he opens them finally, moist and stinging. “He doesn’t know how to love.” And why does his voice sound like that? Why does it sound weak and small and distant and everything Louis is _not?_ “He doesn’t want me.”

And it’s simple and it’s dead and it’s final, and Louis just shrugs as Stan sighs and they don’t speak until they arrive back at the house.

**

Just as Louis suspected, Harry did not text.

He’s in bed before the moon has barely even risen—after having read his youngest sisters bedtime stories and sat and chatted softly with the older ones and kissed his mum on the cheek—and he hates his phone right now, wishes he didn’t need to obsessively check it for Harry’s name.

He sees a stream of texts from Niall that he doesn’t read, most of them with exclamation points, and he knows they’re good, knows they’re all having fun, most definitely won, and he’ll hear about it later, he will, but right now he needs himself, the silence, and the quiet knowledge of nothing.

So he sets his phone down, punches his pillow into a cold, inviting ball, and drops down like dead weight.

Sleep. He will sleep and then tomorrow, in the morning, he’ll think.

**

It’s definitely not morning when a sharp buzz jolts him awake.

The monotonous wail of his phone fills the room as it rumbles on the table, making the room glow. It startles Louis momentarily before it stops and darkens, returning the room to silence and peace.

He’d put money on it being Niall. Probably drunk. Most definitely drunk. Calling Louis to sing him a victory song.

Rubbing his burning, dry eyes, Louis stretches as much as he can as he reaches for his phone, checking his notifications and—

Twenty-three missed calls.

From Rory.

_Twenty-three._

Something icy spikes through Louis.

So he reads all of his texts next—Niall exclaiming _‘WEVE FUCKIN WON’_ around eight PM. ‘ _WE WON AGAIN’_ fifteen minutes later. _‘WISH YOU WERE HERE MATE LOVE YA’_ five minutes later. _‘Why aren’t you here?? :(’_ from Liam around the same time. Another from Liam that says _‘Will you be coming out with us after? :(‘_ and a _‘U okay?’_ from Zayn seven minutes later. A picture of them all huddled together looking beautiful around nine-thirty. Harry’s there. He’s giving his fake smile, his eyes closed off and dull, too many teeth showing. _He_ hasn’t said anything to Louis.

But then the texts stop. And that’s it.

And then, at three in the morning. Twenty-three consecutive missed calls from Rory. _Rory_ of all people.

Something’s not right.

All Louis can think about is Niall and his heart beats painfully hard, unhealthily fast, and everything is sharp and cold as he sits up in bed. His throat itches like it wants to be sick.

Niall. Is something wrong with Niall? Rory would know. Rory would call Louis if something was wrong with Niall.

Suddenly, his phone begins vibrating in his hand again—it’s Rory calling for the twenty-fourth time. His name flashes across the screen, bold and bright and terrifying, too bright for Louis’ tired eyes.

He stares, feeling another icy streak of panic shoot through his entire body as he stares at the screen before answering with one swift swipe, toes tingling and heart beating uncomfortably. He can hear his sisters’ soft snores drifting from the hall.

It’s probably nothing. He’s probably just being paranoid. Niall’s probably fine.

“Hello?” he answers, and his tone is obviously stricken with worry, too discombobulated to assemble any sort of poker face.

“Louis.” Rory’s tone is flat, almost hesitant. Sounds simultaneously relieved and apprehensive at finally being able to reach him.

“What?” Louis asks immediately, maybe a little abrasively, but he doesn’t care. His hands clench the sheets that have fallen to his waist. He can’t see, everything black and formless around him. So quiet, save for the soft snores and his heartbeat.

“You better come back, Louis.”

His heart jumps into this throat at the firm words. He tries to swallow, over and over, tries to push it back down so he can breathe.

“Why?” He’s keeping his breath even.

Dread. He feels dread. Something is wrong.

“You better come down,” Rory just repeats and Louis’ about to growl like a wild dog, when: “We’re at St. Francis.”

Thud, goes the drop of his heart.

“Hospital?” Louis manages and there’s gravel in his mouth. “What’s wrong? Niall? What’s happened to him? Is he alright? What the fuck, Rory?”

“We don’t know where Niall is.”

What??

“What does that mean?”

There’s a strangled sigh on the other end and Louis’ already pushing his sheets off, trying to blink through the crust in his eyes and the heavy silence of night and dark.

“Just come back. It’s better to…” Louis stops breathing, stops moving, just listens. “It’s better if you hear in person.”

Everything freezes around him as little acidic white spots begin blinking in Louis’ eyes.

“Tell me,” is all he says, but it’s in a tone unfamiliar to himself, one he’s never used before, and Louis doesn’t feel connected to his body right now.

A pause.

Then.

“Liam.”

And ice floods Louis’ veins.

“What about him?” he asks, panicked, high, dizzy.

“He’s here. In hospital.”

“What about him?!” Louis repeats in a snarl and he’s sat down on the bed. He’s dizzy. He probably needs water. Everything’s shaking.

There’s the faint sound of voices and hubbub on the other end.

“He overdosed.”

Silence.

Louis stares.

“They’re stabilizing him, Louis,” he says, and the tension in his voice is so alien and uncomfortable and horrible. “It wasn’t too late. He’s still here, Louis.”

Louis stares.

There’s no blood in his fingers.

“Come back. Zayn’s asking for you.”

Zayn.

“I’m coming,” he says faintly, eyes tearing because he hasn’t blinked, frozen to the spot. No air, no thoughts, no movement. Louis is filled with nothing.

“Good.”

Silence.

Long, thick silence.

“He’s going to be okay, Louis.”

“They said that?”

A pause.

“He’s going to be okay.”

And that’s all that Louis hears before he hangs up.

**

“Do you want me to stay?” his mum asks, wrapped in a thick jacket, face still sleep-creased and puffy. Her long hair is catching in the wind as she stands beside the car, the moon glowing above the cold lights of the hospital.

It hadn’t taken them long to get here, and Louis can’t help but be a bit extremely thankful that his mum was as calm about everything as she was. Even when he shook her awake, his heartbeat in his mouth and his hands rougher than he meant, jerky and cold, she’d merely switched on her light, sat up, listened, and nodded. She’d wrapped a jacket around her nightgown, plucked the keys off of the counter, and waited for Louis expectantly at the door after waking Charlotte, telling her to watch the girls, to call Stan if she needed.

Louis didn’t like it, didn’t like leaving like that, but he had to. He had to go and all he could do was hug his little sister without an explanation as he ambled out the door; and now they’re here after a silent drive, the moon high in the sky, his mum shivering in the wind, his bag slung over his shoulder, and his jacket open and rumpled.

And he doesn’t want to go inside.

“No, it’s fine,” he finally responds, voice scratchy. He’s solemn, terrified. Biting the insides of his lips and avoiding his mum’s gaze.

The wind whips past them as they stand, awkward.

“And they can’t find Niall?” she asks after a moment, hugging her sides.

“I guess,” he shrugs, hollow. “At least, that’s what Rory said.”

He needs to suck it up and go inside.

“You’re sure you don’t need me?” she asks, one last time, unsure.

Louis is thankful for it. Niall really has, somehow, miraculously, improved her character.

Niall.

His stomach twists.

“Yeah. I don’t think Zayn would—“ he cuts off, swallowing.

This is all so bizarre.

She nods, silent, clearly uncomfortable.

“Call us and the girls when everything’s okay. Don’t forget about us,” she adds with a weak smile.

A prickle of annoyance settles inside him at the request but it’s only momentary before he attempts a smile in return.

“Couldn’t if I tried, could I?” he tries to joke.

She merely stares at him in response, searchingly, worriedly.

The wind whips by.

“Good luck,” she says at last, stepping towards him after hesitating, wrapping him up in her arms.

He feels her press her lips to his hair, her hands gripping him tightly.

Neither lets go. Louis doesn’t want to let go.

But still he says, “I should go,” and steps out of her embrace, face pinned together in a smile. “I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

She nods.

“See you soon, love.”

He nods. His eyes are prickling. Fuck.

“Love you, Boo,” she adds.

He nods again, glancing away because his eyes are wet. He manages a wave, watches as she gets back in the car and drives off, leaving him in his trackies and old jacket, his bare ankles bright cold in the chilly air as he wipes the back of his hand against his eyes.

No crying. No crying.

He turns around and walks inside.

**

“Louis. You’re here,” Rory says in a relieved whoosh, almost as soon as Louis steps out of the lift.

He must’ve been waiting, and that sends sharp jolts through him.

“Sorry, I had to have my mum drive me. Went home,” he says, his eyes searching the cluster of chairs nearby, searching for a familiar face. The hospital is mostly empty.

“Nothing would have changed had you gotten here earlier,” Rory says, a little gruff. He claps him on the back. “He’ll be glad you’re here.”

“Who?”

“Zayn.”

Louis takes a deep breath.

This is so, so out of his realm.

He nods, scanning the room again.

“Where is he?” he asks, breathless, steeling himself.

“With Liam.”

His head snaps to Rory, feeling the warm trickle of hope in his scalp.

“He’s awake?”

“No.”

And the trickle stops.

“But he’s going to be okay.”

The trickle turns into a flood.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, feeling the moisture in his eyes return. “They said?”

Rory nods, a smile forming beneath tired eyes, hand still gentle on Louis’ back. And then it’s gone.

“Come on. He’ll want to see you.”

**

Louis isn’t allowed to see Liam, which comes as no surprise. Secretly, he’s relieved. He isn’t good with this stuff, doesn’t know how to handle it, and seeing Liam hooked up to machines, drained of color and consciousness…. Well.

Louis’ secretly relieved.

But that’s all very much smashed as soon as he sees Zayn, pacing back and forth in the waiting room, still in his satin lapelled jacked and trousers and slackened tie, polished shoes gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights as the soles click against the floor. He’s pale as a ghost, his eyes black, his entire demeanor erratic and bright like a dying star.

Louis stops in his tracks.

He’s never seen Zayn like this. Has only ever seen smooth, smoke-breathing Zayn with his quiet understanding and loyal looks and lightning touches, has only been met with his lidded eyes and half-smiles. Yet here he is, twitching and pink and pale and red around the edges and gray on the surface and jumpy and weak and blurry, sparking like lightning, jumbled like a hurricane.

“Zayn?” Louis asks tentatively, upon approaching him.

He hears Rory walk away, leaving them alone.

Zayn immediately whips around, strained, glossy eyes finding Louis. Relief breaks through the madness.

He doesn’t say a word, just bolts up to Louis and embraces him in a tight, unyielding hug.

Louis’ never hugged Zayn before. At least not while sober. It’s new to him, the way Zayn’s lithe frame presses against him, his hair sleek and perfumed, his skin smoke-tinged and warm.

He holds on, unsure and a little disoriented, holds on because Zayn clings to him, and he can’t even think to ask any questions, his mind and body blank.

Eventually, Zayn peels himself away, red eyes inspecting Louis with a fury that raises the fine hairs on his forearms, his eyes smudged with exhaustion—emotional and physical.

“He’s going to be all right,” he says, but he doesn’t say it with relief. His voice shakes and the words are barely holding themselves together, everything about him screaming agitation. “He’s going to be alright which is the only reason I’m here right now and not fucking killing him.”

Louis frowns.

Not what he was expecting.

“Look, Zayn. I know Liam’s made some mistakes—“

“This isn’t Liam’s fault,” Zayn snaps frantically, taking a step back and looking both terrified and ready to attack. Like a cornered animal.

What?

“I thought—“ Louis begins, but Zayn is shaking his head furiously, stalking past Louis and bumping him in the shoulder hard enough to cause him to lose his footing.

“It’s _his_ fault. It’s always his fucking fault,” Zayn spits.

And, no, Louis has never, ever seen Zayn like this before. He’s almost near hysterical.

“Whose fault?” Louis asks, bewildered, trailing slowly after him. “What—“

“He was such a fucking mess the whole night—such a fucking psycho like his father—that he fucking dragged Liam into it all—he didn’t even know what he was taking! He just gave it to him because he didn’t want to be the only one who was fucking miserable,” Zayn’s saying, words rushed and loud and sparking and Louis is _confused_ because what is he saying? He’s _not_ talking about –“He gave him bad fucking drugs, is what he gave him,” Zayn continues. His eyes are glossier, fierce. A tear pools and collects in his right eye before streaming down his sculpted cheek, marked in stubble and twisted into a sneer. “Laced with some fucked up, random _shit_. Did _he_ take some? No. He fucking bought it and gave it to Liam because he’s a selfish fuck and he knew—he _knew_ Liam would take it and he just fucking _watched_.”

Louis is so _confused_.

Surely…

“Who gave it to him?” he asks, faint.

Not…

Zayn’s face twists in disgust and vehemence, another tear falling. He’s terrifying, he’s a terrifying crier, and Louis finds himself taking a step back, his blood cold and sluggish.

“Harry.”

Louis stops breathing.

He blinks, takes another step back. “Ha-Harry gave—“

“I left Liam’s side for two fucking minutes, Louis. _Two fucking minutes_ so I could get him a drink because he was hitting it too hard as it were. And I came back and—“ Zayn cuts off, steady streams now falling down his face. So, so silently. His vicious expression begins to disintegrate, leaving him looking helpless, brittle, everything he’s never been.

Louis can’t breathe.

This is all so fucking _insane_.

“I didn’t know it was him until after we’d arrived here. Harry’d come, brought us here in his car,” Zayn says, sadness beginning to reign over his fury. “He only told me what he did while we were waiting to hear if…” He swallows, looks away. “He told me while we were waiting.”

Louis’ heart isn’t beating. Or if it is, he can’t feel it.

“He had the fucking audacity to tell me _here_ , while Liam was in there, with people he doesn’t even _know_ —“ And now Zayn’s crying, properly, and it’s potentially the most heartbreaking thing Louis has ever seen in his entire life. Worse than _Fox and the Hound_ , worse than _Black Beauty_.  

Without thought or breath, Louis walks to him, wraps an arm around his waist, pulling Zayn to his side.

He goes willingly, briefly settling his forehead upon Louis’ shoulder as he gathers himself before standing straight, the slits of his eyes glittering and sour, etched raw.

“I almost killed him after he told me,” he manages eventually, sniffing, voice hard. He wipes the remaining tears away with the back of his hand, eyelashes clustered together like spears. “I never want to see him again. Or I swear on my life, I _will_ kill him.”

Louis doesn’t know how to answer that, his stomach constricting painfully.

Harry.

Harry, Harry, Harry.

What the actual _fuck_ , Harry.

Why?

“Where’s Niall?” he asks because he can’t ask anything else.

The lights are clinical and bright, and Zayn’s eyes are tired and red, and all Louis wants is darkness. Just a billowing, endless, velvety swarm of darkness.

And maybe the sound of Harry’s breath.

But then Louis thinks of Liam—smiling, bright, perfect Liam—and he doesn’t know _what_ he wants, doesn’t know how to think of this, doesn’t know if there’s such a thing as blame, doesn’t know if he should feel anger or sadness or regret or…nothing.

Because right now he feels nothing.

“Dunno,” Zayn sniffs some more, sliding his hands in his pockets. His eyes droop, his shoulders sag. Exhausted. “Barely saw him the entire night.”

“But surely he would’ve come if he’d known,” Louis says, shocked, because it’s _Niall_. Niall who throws his body onto others for a cuddle, Niall who presses wet kisses to cheeks, Niall who smiles like the sun and laughs like the beginning of summer and who leaves chip grease on the door handles.

Zayn just shrugs in response.

So tired.

“Look, Zayn, I can stay here for the night. You go back and sleep, yeah?” He knows there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of him taking him up on the offer, but he still hopes, still offers.

Zayn shakes his head before the last word is out.

“I’m staying. Waiting for his parents to arrive.”

 “Then I’ll stay with you,” Louis says simply.

A smile struggles through, looks warped beneath the cold lights. “Thank you, Louis,” Zayn says softly, with feeling. “But go back, yeah? Come back tomorrow. I just need to sort my head.”

“Need some space?”

He nods. “Yeah. Some space. Thank you, though. Really.”

Louis nods, clenching his fists nervously.

Does he go, then? Just go? Leave this half-Zayn behind to sleep in stiff wooden chairs upholstered in plastic? Alone?

“Rory will be here,” he says, as if reading Louis’ thoughts.

He nods again.

“You’re sure you don’t want more company? I mean. I know I’m no Rory, but.” Louis smiles.

Zayn sort of smiles.

“Goodnight, Louis,” is all he says, and Louis’ nodding.

“Goodnight Zayn.”

He presses the button to the lift, it opens immediately. Before he steps inside, he turns back around.

“Tell Liam I said hi,” he says, and it’s so casual and commonplace and _normal_ , so utterly contrasted against reality, that Zayn immediately smiles, eyes beginning to glisten once more. There’s a sureness in the words, an understanding made.

“I will. Soon as he finally wakes up, the tosser,” Zayn responds softly, and his entire demeanor calms, his fists unclenching, his pacing ceasing.

Louis smiles back before entering the lift.

**

Niall’s not at the flat.

He doesn’t answer his phone, won’t text Louis back, and he’s just…well. He’s missing.

And Louis is so fucking emotionally exhausted at this point, so utterly undone, that he can only add it to his list of things he feels helplessly terrified about as he drops his bag off into his room, searching the place for any indication that there’d been a recent inhabitant.

But everything lies still and cold and untouched and there are no answers to be found.

He stands in the middle of the room, taking in the decadence, the chandeliers, the velvets and the silks and the polished floors and the ridiculously sized TV that Niall’s come to call ‘home’. He looks at the piano—sleek and unassuming and a fucking nuisance—and smirks, picturing Niall in his pants and snapback so easily, his fingers smelling of weed, his mouth stuffed with cheese, his laughter booming louder than the keys. He takes in the low-set windows that Zayn had vomited in so very long ago (and fuck, Louis never thought he’d ever be eternally grateful for someone getting sick on his feet, but here he is) and he shakes his head and marvels at it all because it all looks so different to him now.

What had been ostentatious, unbearable, ridiculous, is now commonplace, casual, comforting. Has become home. 

What he had sneered at, he now adores wildly.

What he had thought empty, heartless, ridiculous, he now thinks of as warm, open, beautiful.

Enchanting.

Childlike.

Strong.

Home.

He closes his eyes as his thoughts whisper the name, _that_ name, a thousand conflicting feelings bubbling beneath the surface. Wild adoration, despair, shame, worry, affection, anger, frustration, love….

_Not with you._

His heart lurches as he thinks of the feel of his lips, as he thinks of the way he looked when he left Louis behind.

No. He can’t keep doing this. He just can’t.

But then he hears Zayn’s voice.

 _I never want to see him again. Or I swear on my life, I_ will _kill him._

Never see him again.

The thought alone pushes into Louis painfully, pierces his heart like a thorn.

Once more. He’ll see him just once more. Because this is all so fucked up and, yes, he might’ve pushed Louis away, he might’ve rejected him, but this is _more_. This is so much more than unrequited love, and Louis needs to just see him once more.

When he finally opens his eyes, he grabs his keys and leaves.

**

He’s standing outside Harry’s door and, this time, it’s difficult to go inside.

He wants to, wants to more than anything because he needs to see him. Desperately. Needs to just understand what’s happened tonight, needs to know if he’s alright.

But every time he closes his eyes he sees Harry’s wild eyes retreating away from him, hears his weak voice spitting out a, “Not with you, Louis,” and it’s all so fresh still. So fucking excruciating and humiliating.

He clenches his jaw.

And opens the door anyway.

The room is dimly lit by a gas lamp and candles—sun still having not yet risen—that cast shadows upon the walls in flickering sighs. Their flames catch in the cold breezes that whip through the room, pushing through the windows that are opened wide, wide as they can go—as if there wasn’t enough air—the curtains rippling and snapping. Suitcases lie half-packed around the room, bits of clothes haphazardly strewn about, papers stacked, their edges fluttering, and cracked, leather-bound books litter the floor. The cat figurines are missing from their shelf. Flowers lie dead on the tables, crispy petals lifted in the gusts of wind, drifting to the floor.

And there, amidst it all, is Harry.

Harry, with his tangled curls and…

Louis swallows at the sight.

Harry. With his tears that glisten his soft, pale cheeks and sobs that wreck his trembling body and hands that he doesn’t know what do with as he wanders in circles, journal in one hand, his lilac jumper in the other.

Like Zayn, he’s also still wearing his suit from the Brits, his bowtie undone and his shirt unbuttoned at the top, ripped apart wide as if he’d been choking, revealing the slender line of his white neck that heaves unsteadily. Little noises escape him—little hiccups and little shaky breaths—as he walks, clearly distraught, clearly blinded by tears and just _aimless_ , stumbling over the oriental rug and stumbling over himself.

He doesn’t see Louis.

So Louis just watches for a little longer, watches because he’s transfixed and heartbroken and very, very fucking terrified, unsure if he should even be here.

But he always keeps coming back, doesn’t he. He always comes back.

He swallows.

Just once more.

“Where are you going?” he asks at last, voice raspy. He clears his throat, but Harry’s already spun around, his eyes wild and body stiffening and—

And he lets out a sob the minute his eyes land on Louis.

 It’s open, it’s unabashed, and it’s raw, his entire composure unraveling that much more, and Louis feels it too, feels the relief and the dread and the exhaustion in that sob, sees the helplessness in his tears, and that’s enough. That’s enough to assure him that, yes, he should be here.

 “Harry,” he says, voice breaking, as he rushes to him blindly, instinctually. When he reaches him, he touches unthinkingly, cradles Harry’s head in his hands and brushes away the fresh surge of tears and it makes Harry cry harder, the jumper and journal falling out of his slackened hands, thudding onto the floor.

Louis’ eyes sting, his throat stings, his chest stings as Harry’s head bows with the weight of his tears, and he feels it as Harry brings his hands up to rest on Louis’ forearms, loose, then gripping, almost bruising, and the sobs never stop and Louis can’t swallow, can’t blink. He just brushes tear after tear away with his clumsy thumbs, fingertips lost in wisps of hair and smooth flesh as he holds Harry together, keeps all of his pieces in place as they crack and crumble.

He doesn’t want to say ‘it’s okay’ and he doesn’t want to shush him, doesn’t want to tell him anything because Harry needs this, needs to cry, and Louis wants it for him, doesn’t want him to feel ashamed of his tears or feel weakened by them.

Minutes and forever passes, and Louis never releases Harry and Harry never releases Louis.

Louis can’t let go. He just fucking _can’t_. Can’t even look away.

“Is he okay?”

Louis startles at Harry’s quiet, almost-whimper of a voice, his heart breaking all over again as Harry bows his head further down, ashamed, quiet, small.

“He’s going to be okay, yeah,” he whispers, his thumbs brushing the thin flesh beneath his eyes, wondering if he’s leaving indents.

Harry nods, sobs quieting.

They stand longer, stand together, and Louis never looks away.

“I have to go,” Harry says at least, head still bowed, voice miserable. His grip on Louis eases, and the tip of his nose is pink, his eyelashes wet and clinging to his skin. “I’m going to leave. Tonight.”

Louis freezes, impaled.

_What?_

“I’m not coming back this time,” he continues. “I can’t come back.”

Incredulous and a bit completely fucking shattered, Louis stares, moving his hand to brush his thumb over Harry’s lips, wanting to push the words back inside, keep them away from the world.

He watches, heart rate increasing, as Harry’s eyelids flutter at the contact, his lips momentarily turning to graze Louis’ palm; he watches the sweet press of his lids as they shut, watches Harry inhale his skin.

He’s inhaling Louis’ skin.

He’s breathing him.

He’s relaxing, loosening, cells melting into Louis’ cells and his eyes are closed as he breathes Louis’ _skin_ , grazing his face against the flesh of his fingers so gently, so _reverently_.

And holy fuck, holy shit, fuck, shit, what, _what??_ Louis is going to _die,_ is going to—

But then he pulls away.

Always pulls away.

And he opens his eyes, revealing a blankened stare that doesn’t reach farther than the floor, before slipping out of Louis’ grasp and turning away.

“No,” Louis says dumbly, finding his voice, because that’s all that he can say. He shakes his head, following Harry as he picks up the journal, the jumper, picks up another book. “No, you can’t leave. You can’t just leave. You’re in school, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t a fucking novel, Harry, you can’t _run away_.”

“I don’t need school. You know that. I’ll be fine.” His voice is raspy, low. Quiet.

Louis doesn’t know how to respond.

“You can’t leave.”

Harry continues to move throughout the room, dropping item after item in each suitcase, an occasional sniffle breaking the steady sounds of wind, flickering candle, and billowing curtains.

A panicked desperation begins to drip cold down Louis’ scalp.

“Harry—fucking—you can’t fucking—you can’t just _leave,_ you can’t _do_ that!”

That goddamned heart shirt gets dropped in next, rumpling softly as it reaches the suitcase. Louis tracks the movement with his eyes, palms cold.

There’s a few more pangs of silence, of Louis watching Harry pack and feeling his heart crack, and then his pulse quickens. His heart beats harder, each thump vicious against his frail bones and shivered skin. It might crack him in half.

“Take me with you,” Louis finds himself saying, desperate.

He might be going insane.

He says it before he understands it, but the minute the words fall into the room, he knows that he means them, means them more than he’s ever meant any other drivel he’s spewed in his entire twenty-one years of existence, and he stands there, defiant, refusing to take the words back.

And Harry freezes.

“Take me with you” he repeats, stepping forwards, breathless. “I want to go with you.”

He’s panicked, he’s blind.

Slowly, Harry’s head turns, eyes wide, bright, careful.

“Louis,” he drips slowly, drawing the name out into a song, “I can’t do that to you.”

“Take me with you,” Louis says again, walking up to him and locking his gaze, and Harry looks down, trapped, torn, and frayed.

He tries to shake his head, but his eyes crawl to Louis’ eyes, settling there, and he stops, his brow furrowing.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he whispers.

“You make me want to not make sense,” Louis whispers back with a smile, and something shifts in Harry’s eyes. Maybe a returned smile.  

Harry swallows, still staring, still caught. Almost dazed.

“That doesn’t make sense, either.”

Louis dares to smile wider. “Good. I should hate to make sense.”

“’To be great is to be misunderstood,’” Harry quotes mindlessly, unblinkingly, lost.

Louis’ ribs are cracking. He grins.

“So it’s decided, then?” he asks, and what is he saying? What is he asking? What is he doing?

What about the rejection? What about Liam? What about what he did? What about Niall and Zayn and what about, what about, _what about??_

He’s spinning out of control. But he can’t think about any of that, any of it, because he’s drowning in _right now_ and trapped by Harry’s eyes.

At Louis’ words, Harry’s trace of a smile vanishes, leaving only darkness.

“I could never do that to you,” he says, low. “I could never take you with me. You don’t deserve that. You deserve—“ His voice cracks, stops, a ripple of a grimace shadows his face. Louis watches the lines of his throat as he swallows.

“Then stay,” Louis insists, gripping his arm. “I won’t—I won’t kiss you again, all right? I won’t—I’m your friend, first and foremost, okay? I won’t and—and the lads will come around, Zayn will come around. He’s just upset. He’s…”

He falls silent as Harry shakes his head, his eyes intent on Louis’ lips. His breathing is harsh through his nose. He remains perfectly still, face tense, chest heavy.

Pinpricks of seconds pass by, Harry’s eyes still locked on Louis’ mouth, Louis’ mind whirring, and there they stand, alone together, surrounded by open suitcases and wind and flickering candles and a moon that’s begun to descend on the horizon.

Louis’ mind is fucking _whirring._

“Why did you do it, Harry?” he needs to ask after a stretch of silence, voice in a whisper. The mood shifts immediately. “What did you give him? Why? What happened tonight?”

Again, Harry grimaces, but he remains silent, eyes flicking away from his lips and up to Louis’ eyes. The glassiness of his gaze intensifies, but the tears never fall.

“Zayn’s my best mate,” he eventually says, cracked. He doesn’t answer the question. “They’re my only mates. I don’t want to them to look at me like that again. I can’t stay here, not when Zayn looks at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Harry’s voice comes out even quieter, weaker, face threatening to crumple. “He hates me, Louis. He hates me and I can’t stay here. I don’t want to.”

Louis ignores the pang at that.

He doesn’t want to stay? Even if Louis’ here?

Louis couldn’t leave Harry if he tried.

“ _I_ don’t hate you,” he says, pushing his thoughts away because _no._ This isn’t about his heart—this is about Harry’s. “I don’t hate you at all—I just don’t understand you. You never _let_ me understand you. I want—“ He stops himself, unsure of what he was about to say.

The wind whistles low as it slides past the windowpanes.

With a deep-set frown, Harry lifts his hand, cautiously, shakily, to Louis’ cheek. It’s electric, almost too much, as it touches Louis’ cheek, just barely. “You don’t deserve—“ he begins, eyes softening, and the electricity turns into a fire.

With hot, burning coals that ignite Louis’ insides, flare his temper.

“Stop fucking telling me what I deserve!” he snaps, angry, exasperated, gripping onto Harry’s wrist and securing it in place. Okay, maybe he will be a little bit selfish. He deserves to be. “Don’t just leave your messes behind, Harry. Just don’t. We’ll sort it out. Both of us. Me and you.” As Harry begins to shake his head, Louis growls, grips tighter to Harry’s wrist. “ _Yes_. Just—just don’t leave this time, okay? Stay. Please. Please stay.”

Harry regards him, eyes cloudy, hand limp against Louis’ cheek as he holds it up. Doubt reigns in his features.

“Please,” Louis says again, softer.

Moments drag by, moments filled with the sound of Louis’ body thrashing in agony.

Then finally, finally, Harry’s eyes clear the tiniest bit, his lips quirking down a bit more, and he nods. Just once, quickly, but he nods, and Louis breathes as he releases Harry’s wrist, letting his hand fall back to his side.

“Good,” he breathes, “good. Stay tonight, yeah? And lemme just—lemme talk to Zayn. I think he’ll listen to me. If I just put some perspective into him…we can work on this, all right? I know you didn’t want to hurt Liam—“

“ _Never_ ,” Harry interrupts, impassioned, pained, eyes wide and lost. “I would never want—I’d never want that.” He swallows.

Louis nods. “I know. And Zayn does, too. He does, deep down. He’s just upset right now. He’s not thinking clearly. I’ll talk to him.”

With determination, he begins backing away, confidence pairing with the adrenaline in this body, the hysteria and the panic and over-abundance of emotions and sleep deprivation.

“What—now?” Harry asks, brow furrowing. “I can’t ask you to do that, Louis.” His voice is doubtful.

“Let me talk to him. Stay here. I’ll be back, okay? Just let me talk to Zayn and I’ll be back.”

 _Please don’t leave_ , is what he means.

Harry doesn’t reply.

“Please,” Louis says, pausing, because Harry isn’t agreeing anymore, is just standing there. He needs to _agree._ “Just stay, okay?”

Another beat of silence from Harry.

Louis’ heart is quivering, bruising.

“For me.”

At that, Harry starts.

“Please stay for me.”

More silence passes, more drags on.

Then. At last.

“Tonight,” Harry promises, quiet, eyes locked within Louis’. “I’ll stay tonight.”

Louis feels his chest expand.

Thank god.

It’s enough. It’s not everything…but it’s enough.

He turns to leave as Harry watches him, eyes unblinking, face hard. He watches him, his curls ruffling in the wind, before he suddenly strides forward before Louis’ hand reaches the door handle.

“Louis,” he says, quiet and loud at the same time, voice pitched in fear.

Louis turns immediately.

Harry stares at him, eyes scorching him alive.

“I’m sorry,” he says, overwhelmed, frail. “I don’t know—you weren’t there tonight and I wasn’t sure if it was because—I don’t know if I—I didn’t mean to—“ he cuts off, swallowing, eyes wide. His hands clench at his sides. “Thank you. For coming tonight. For coming here.”

Fuck.

Louis’ insides soften.

“I always come,” he says, lips twisting in a self-depreciating smile. “For you, at least.” He tries to sound wry, but he sounds hurt instead. He licks his lips.

“I wasn’t sure if—“ Harry falls silent.

His heart drags. Rejection, rejection, rejection.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Louis says. He looks away, anywhere but at Harry. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

In his peripherals, he sees Harry stiffen.

He swallows past it.

“You need a friend,” he says, hollow, keeping his voice level. “And I respect that. I don’t know _what_ I expected, I just…” And he can’t help it, he looks to Harry, looks into his wide, wide green eyes and pale, terrified face, his brows that are beginning to pinch, his lips whose fine, red lines warp into a grimace. “I lost myself. Just, for a moment…” He breathes through his nose.

Now is not the time, Louis. Now is not the time.

But, of course, he ignores his rational thought, instead opting for doing what feels right, because he’s lost right now and he can’t think properly, he’s _spinning out of control_.

“I thought… I thought, maybe, if you just _knew_ how I…” He stops, once more unable to look at Harry, voice weak.

Okay. Maybe he can’t do this after all.

He swallows.

“I’ll never do that again,” he says instead and it hurts. Things are caving in. “I’ll never make you feel that way again.”

He still can’t look at Harry, but he hears him breathing, hears the harsh breaths through his nose and can see the shaking of his hands. But he can’t, can’t, can’t look at him.

“I don’t…. I don’t want anything that you don’t want to give,” he continues, and he breathes, forces himself to look up. “And I won’t ask it of you.”

God, this hurts.

Harry stares at him, shiny and pink and agape, looking somewhere between confused and speechless and terrified and he just stares at Louis, won’t stop staring.

“Just please don’t leave. Okay? I’ll be back. I’ll be back and I’ll fix this,” Louis says in a rush because this is horrible, this is embarrassing, this is pathetic.

He came here to find answers about Liam, because Liam’s hurt—really hurt—and instead he’s made a fucking fool of himself, thrown himself at Harry again and _why?_

Why is he doing these things? Why can’t he stop? Why must he constantly find himself drowning in Harry and why can’t he think properly? He’s focusing on this drivel, this mess of emotions seeping from his heart, instead of the things that matter.

Or, maybe, these things do matter.

He doesn’t know.

What he does know is that he needs to get the fuck out of here.

“I’ll be back,” he says, near frantic, one last time as he shuts the door, leaving Harry’s open mouth and wide, wet eyes.

**

It only occurred to him as he was about to leave the school gates that it wasn’t yet morning, was still mostly night.

Cursing, he walked back to his flat. Maybe for a nap, maybe just for a cup of tea, maybe just to sit in silence for a bit. But he came back because Zayn’s still at the hospital, wanting to be alone, waiting for Liam’s parents, and Louis can’t talk to Harry right now.

Not when he can’t fucking handle it. Not when he’s throwing up feelings and emotions and words he doesn’t understand. There are more important things happening right now.

And besides—just how many times does Harry need to reject Louis before he gets the hint? (A lot of times, apparently.)

He’s lost in thought when he opens the door to his flat, the sky still a navy sort of blue, the stars a little weaker, the very faint peakings of the sun beginning to unleash upon the world.

He’s lost when he flicks on the light, and so he doesn’t see the figure sitting at the table in the dark, doesn’t see the fingers that grip in blonde hair.

Instead, in his haste to collapse at the kitchen table and—maybe?—cry, he almost collapses on Niall.

“Fuck’s sake!” he yips, jumping up as Niall starts. He collects himself, allows his thoughts to quiet, and then, heart warming, gasps out a, “Niall??!”

But Niall doesn’t say anything.

He just slides his hands down to his face and hides, and his skin is the hue of tears, is muddled and moist and he’s dressed to the nines and completely undone and…

And what’s happening?

“Niall?” he asks again, tentative, taking in the boy before him who is…wrong. Just wrong.

Niall is bright and alive and unaffected. Not…this.

“What’s wrong, Ireland?” he asks, playing for casual, playing for light, but Niall just shakes his head and—

And Louis thinks he just heard a…quiet sob? Like. An actual sob?

Panicked, alarmed, and very fucking upset—this might be more heartbreaking than Zayn’s meltdown—Louis just places his arm around his shoulders, grips him to his side, and instantly Niall sinks into him, his shoulders shaking as he silently weeps.

What’s wrong what’s wrong what’s wrong.

Louis’ blood is humming. (Worst. Night. Ever.)

They remain like that for some time, Louis keeping calm because he’s become a bit of an expert at dealing with tears, just holding Niall silently and trying to just take each moment as it comes before he explodes, and Niall shaking, occasionally emitting tiny, painful noises, and Louis just listens because there’s nothing else he can do.

Eventually, the noises quiet and the shakes lessen and Louis waits some more.

“I fucked up,” is what Niall finally says, low and anguished.

Louis’ heart breaks a bit as he takes a seat beside him.

When he finally lowers his hands, his face is red and mottled, his hair askew with product and the traces of his fingers, and his eyes are lost, crimson, and puffy. He looks broken. It makes Louis swallow.

“What do you mean?” Louis asks softly, never releasing his grip on him.

“I fucked up real bad, Lou,” he says, and his face begins to fall again, his eyes crumpling and no, no, no there’s just too much crying right now.

Louis is so _tired_.

“You heard what happened, yeah?” Niall continues, swallowing down the tears, breathing slow and shaky. He glances sidelong at Louis before looking away, folding his arms over his chest. “Tonight? With Liam?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods sadly, tightens his hold around his shoulders. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here. Mum drove me back.”

Niall nods, breathing through his mouth, still assembling himself.

“Good woman.”

Louis half-smiles. “I guess. Could credit you for some of that.”

Niall’s face falls that much more.

“No. No, don’t do that.” His voice is strangled and fuck, this is all so _wrong_.

“He’s going to be okay,” Louis assures gently. “Do you want to go? Zayn’s there right now. Liam’s parents are on their way if they haven’t arrived already—“

“Fuck, Lou, stop! Just stop, all right?” Niall says, pushing his chair away and breaking free, making to stand up. “I fuckin’…” He walks to the windows, shoulders tense.

“You fuckin’ what?” Louis asks, confused. “What’s _wrong,_ Niall? He’s gonna be okay—“

“I did it.”

A drop of silence.

“What?” Louis asks, confused. Because… “Did what?”

“I gave it to him. I gave that shit to Liam. I took some, too.”

Oh fuck.

Oh shit.

What?!

“You gave—“ Louis starts, dead.

“I don’t know, I just… We fuckin’ won—we won, Louis! We won every fuckin’ category and I was having the best fuckin’ time and I was getting all this recognition and these fuckin’ offers and shit and I just fuckin’…. I felt on top of the goddamn world, ya know?” He laughs, dry and empty, running his hands through his hair as he stares out the windows, at the awakening sky, his back to Louis. “And Liam’s always up for it. So I gave him some and it just so happened that the shit he took was… It was bad, Lou. I fuckin’ gave it to him. And I should’ve stayed to see how he’d react to it but I just left him and—“ He cuts off, and Louis can’t see his face.

Louis can barely see anything, because there are spots in his eyes and his world has just been fucking turned upside down.

His blood beats in his ears.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Louis manages to ask in a brittle voice, eyes wide, and he stares at Niall’s back unblinkingly. His own thoughts are assaulting him.

What what what.

“I was scared,” Niall admits quietly after a moment. The cool blue of the fading night sky glows on his pallid skin, soaks into his tangled strands of hair. “I was scared shitless so I fuckin’ left.” He hears him swallow. “I just left.” And his head droops.

Louis’ thoughts are on overload.

He tries to absorb the information, tries to think of Rory and how he couldn’t find Niall, Zayn’s fury at Harry and—Harry.

Fuck.

“Why the fuck did you leave? Why the fuck didn’t you talk to Zayn?” Louis asks, standing up as well, but he’s not mad. He can’t be mad right now when everything else is so strong and it’s left no room for anything else. “Niall, that was such a shit move. You’re better than that. He could’ve died and you would’ve just hid??”

“I know.”

“Do you??”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do,” Niall says louder, turning around. His face is pained and marked in lines, ghostly illuminated. “I’m going to talk to Zayn.”

“Good,” Louis says, walking up to him. “I’ll go with you. First thing in the morning.”

“So. Like, an hour.”

Louis nods. “Like an hour.”

The air is tense.

And Louis is still confused.

“Harry told Zayn he did it,” he says, low and careful, watching Niall’s face.

Niall blinks at that, surprise alighting his expression.

“Wait, what?”

“Harry said he did it. Zayn almost killed him. Was he there, or…?” Louis asks, and his heart is picking up pace because things are slotting into uneven places in his mind, coming together jaggedly.

“No, no he wasn’t there,” Niall says, taken. “He was off in the corner, moping about you.”

Louis feels sick.

“What?”

“He was like that the whole night. Barely spoke to anyone. Just stared at his fuckin’ phone. He wouldn’t even talk to Grimmy.”

Oh god.

“Then why did he…” Louis searches for answers. Comes up with nothing.

Fuck.

“I’ve got to talk to him.”

“ _I’ve_ got to talk to him,” Niall says, bewildered, but Louis stops him as he makes to leave.

“No, please. Let me just—let me do this first. I need to talk to him on my own. First. Then, you can?” Louis’ voice is hopeful, is teetering on the edge as he stares at Niall. His heart is racing.

Niall nods.

“Yeah, sure. That’s fine. Just. Just tell him I’m going to come clean to Zayn, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll text you when we’re finished? You can come over? Or, whatever.” Louis can barely think. His heart just keeps beating so loudly.

Niall nods. “Sounds good, yeah.”

“Okay.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Louis rushes forward, wraps Niall up in his arms in a fierce embrace.

For a moment, Niall is stunned, body stiff against Louis’ before he finally relaxes, wrapping warm arms around Louis’ body.

“We’ll fix this, all right? It’s fucked up. It is. But we’ll be all right,” Louis says, voice muffled by Niall’s blazer.

Niall nods.

“It’s down to me, though, isn’t it? Gotta fix it on me own, Tommo. I fucked up, not you. Gotta try and fix this. Well. Fix whatever can be fixed.” He releases Louis, expression dark. “Not sure how you can fix something like this.”

“Maybe fix isn’t the right word,” Louis says. “But we’ll work through it. All of us, yeah? And when Liam wakes up, we’ll have a proper chat with him as well, yeah?”

Niall nods, eyes still dark, before he attempts a smile.

“Yeah. Now go on, get it. Go fetch your prince.”

Louis smiles sadly.

“No prince fetching, I’m afraid. ‘S not like that. He needs a mate, Niall.”

And Niall actually smirks at that.

“He needs you, is what he needs. Go on. Shoo. Go!” he laughs, and Louis hugs him once more, just briefly, before bounding out the door.

**

When he opens the door, he finds Harry at his desk, journal open.

He’s staring down at it, hands in his lap, just staring.

The click of the door as Louis closes it brings him back to life though, makes his head snap up and his eyes brighten infinitesimally.

And they stare at each other from across the room.

Louis, hand still on the door handle, jacket open.

Harry, sat at his desk, the trickling of pink and purple sun framing the frizz of his curls, his shoulders tiny and slouched.

“You didn’t do it,” Louis says, beginning to walk slowly towards him. “You told Zayn you did it, but you didn’t do it.”

Harry’s face changes, but he says nothing.

So Louis continues.

“Niall did. He’s at the flat now. He told me everything. He doesn’t know you took the blame, you know. He had no clue! And he’s gonna fix it. As soon as the sun’s risen, he’s going to tell Zayn.”

Harry bites his lip, still says nothing, following Louis with his eyes.

Louis reaches the desk, his knees bumping against the cherry wood. He stares down at Harry, lost. So lost.

“Why did you fucking do that? Didn’t you think Liam would tell the truth? Didn’t you think Niall would say something? Why did you _do_ that?!”

“I told Zayn before we knew if Liam was going to be all right,” Harry says softly. He keeps staring.

“But Niall?”

“I gave him an option.” Harry swallows, never blinks. “His career, Louis. He did so well tonight. He’s just a kid, he’s got the world before him. Something like this would ruin his life—“

“It’d ruin _your_ life!” Louis interjects, but Harry stands, shaking his head.

“Better me than him.”

Louis stares.

“Niall’s good. He’s a good person. And, like, he’s going to have a good life. He deserves that. But me? They expect it of me. It made sense, Louis. And I was going to tell Niall, I was, but—“

“But I got to him first,” Louis says, watching as Harry walks to him hesitantly. “And now he’s going to tell Zayn and Liam’s going to tell Zayn and—fuck, Harry, what were you thinking? This was completely fucking unnecessary you stupid fucking martyr! It’s senseless! You fucking _oaf!”_

And he wants to be angry, but he’s not, his voice almost hysterically relieved.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, voice carrying in the breeze.

“Stop apologizing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis sighs, but half-laughs, rubbing his eyes. He looks at Harry, takes in the torn boy before him, and he laughs once more, shaking his head because everything is so fucked up. “So that means you stay then,” is all he thinks to say. “For good.”

Harry watches him closely.

“Perhaps.”

“Not ‘perhaps’. Stay. Come on—there’s no reason for you to go anymore.”

He’s silent, eerily silent, watching Louis. But then he nods eventually, just once, his eyes boring into him.

 “Good,” Louis says, muscles relaxing.

But Harry keeps staring. Why is he looking at him like that?

“What did you mean before?” he suddenly asks, voice odd. He’s still staring at Louis, almost fiercely, his hands at his sides.

Louis blinks, startled.

“Before…?”

“When you said you won’t ask it of me?”

Oh.

Well oh shit.

Louis swallows, ducks his head, clears his throat.

Shit.

“Oh. Er. Well. I—“

“What did you mean when you said you didn’t know what you expected? When you said you lost yourself?”

And Harry’s eyes fucking burn. And his voice is strange.

Shit shit shit.

“I just…” he begins, surveying the half-empty room, before his shoulders fall in an exhale. Tired, he looks up at Harry, looks in those wide, penetrating eyes that sear. “I care about you so much,” he admits quietly, openly, nakedly. His voice is weak under the strain of feeling he allows to seep forth. “So, so much. And you mean everything to me. Somehow, without me even really knowing how, you mean _everything_ to me. And it’s the little things and the big things and… And it’s sort of quiet, you know? It’s sort of this quiet feeling that is just so fucking powerful and essential but so quiet that sometimes I forget it’s there almost? But then, sometimes, it just sort of washes over me and I… I lose myself, I guess. I forget that I’m not supposed to. I forget that I can’t. I forget because all I’m aware of his how much I—“

No.

No no no.

He can’t say it. He can’t do this to Harry.

_Not with you._

He closes his mouth, sucks in a breath.

Harry’s eyes have widened—is that possible?—as they stare at him, his entire body in Louis’ direction, focused on Louis, and he’s like a force of concentrated energy, ready to combust and change the world. Like the moment before the Big Bang. Harry’s the Big Bang.

Louis stares back though, tucks his hands in the sleeves of his jacket and holds on just to grip something, tries to breathe evenly even though he’s just spilled his innards and embarrassed himself yet again, has lain himself out to dry, and he tries to sooth the tight muscles in his face because everything hurts and—

“Say it.”

Harry’s voice is soft, firm, raspy and catching in his throat.

Louis starts at the words.

“Wha—“ he begins, taken aback, clutching tighter to his sleeves.

“Say it,” Harry repeats, and his eyelids flutter, eyes terrified but determined, set in the steel of his face, his copper curls framing and cutting into the porcelain of his skin.

“Say what?” Louis asks, breathless.

What is he asking? Surely not…

“Say it,” Harry says again, and takes a step forward. His eyes grow glassy, staring at Louis as if he were the only fucking thing in the world and _fuck_. “Please.” The last word is barely above a whisper.

So Louis loses himself again.

“I’m in love with you,” he says after a moment’s pause, all of the oxygen leaving the room. And he’s on fire, he’s on fucking fire, but he doesn’t look away from Harry’s eyes. “Duh,” he adds after a moment, needing to lessen the pressure, needing to lighten the pounding tension, but it comes out weak and frail and he can’t feel his face so he’s not completely sure he’s even attempted a smile.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting Harry to do.

But he certainly was not expecting him to break into tears.

In one swift tidal wave, Harry bursts, crying, crying, crying, burrowing his face in his hands, and fuck, no, Louis has had enough crying for the day.

“Curly,” he says lightly, wants to laugh and feel lighter because he’s sick of being on fire, as he takes a tentative step forward. “I—“ But he doesn’t know what to say.

Harry just cries.

But then. But then he suddenly tumbles forward and Louis catches him and Harry’s suddenly clinging to him, clutching him to his chest and burying his face in Louis’ neck and he’s holding onto Louis for dear life, just crying and grabbing and staying.

And Louis’ shocked—really fucking shocked and confused—but he holds on, unsure if he’s being rejected or brushed aside or what, so he just holds.

Then Harry finally lifts his head, little hiccups and sobs still escaping, and what is his expression? It’s a mixture of relief and raw emotion and it’s a lot. It’s everything.

But before Louis can touch a gentle hand to his cheek, before he can search his face, label it, give it a name he’ll keep in his bones forever, Harry’s leaning forward with his red, open lips and wet cheeks and damp eyelashes and he—

He kisses Louis.

He’s absolutely kissing Louis, one hand in his hair, one hand clenched in his jacket, and he’s still crying and Louis is dying. Maybe already dead. It’s soft, alarmingly soft, and slow as the drip of rain, fallen from wet leaves. Like he’s being careful, like he’s savoring, like he’s handling something precious even though Louis feels as if he’s locked in marble. So opposite of their last kiss, of their panicked desperation.

Then Harry gasps for breath through his tears that, apparently, have kept flowing and he breaks off before Louis can even begin to kiss back—and then he’s pressing a kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth and, yes, Louis is most certainly already dead.

He can barely grasp the situation, can barely keep himself upright and Harry’s shuddering breaths collide with Louis’ cheeks as he presses wet kiss after wet kiss to his cheekbones, jaw, nose, forehead, temples, eyelids, the little space between his eyebrows, the bit between his lips and nose, his chin—he’s just _kissing_ Louis, little wet, sweet dabs that are reverent and careful and sighing and crying and Louis’ face is moist with Harry’s tears and Harry’s kisses and it’s the most perfect fucking thing in the world, with the sun rising, the wind whipping through the windows and licking his skin icy.

“I thought,” Louis begins, tangling his hands in Harry’s hair and staring, just staring at Harry’s pink cheeks and the way his eyelashes flutter with every press of his lips to Louis’ face. “I thought you needed a friend?”

Harry stops, pressing one last hiccup-y kiss to the space near Louis’ left ear, and he shakes his head, his grip on Louis tightening.

“I just need _you_ ,” he says, eyes finally meeting with Louis’. They’re shining. They’re fucking shining and they’re brighter than the rising sun, more important than the rising sun, warmer than all the suns in every stretch of the endless universe. They’re the collisions of stars and the supernovas, the moons, and the nebulas and they’re everything. “I don’t know what I’m—I don’t know anything,” he says, holding onto Louis, face alive. “I just _need_ you. And you’re so much more—you’re so much. And I—“

“You left after I kissed you,” Louis says, bewildered, breathless, swirling his fingers against Harry’s scalp, causing his eyelids to flutter like the broken wings of a moth. “You _left_ and I thought—“

“You’re more than that,” Harry says, impassioned, gripping, burning. His eyes are clearer, drier, his eyelashes still damp and sparkling under the dim lights and speckles of fresh, barely awoken sunlight. “I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t. Not with you, Louis. You’re _more_.”

Well.

“You can, though,” Louis says, soft, bringing his hand to Harry’s face and brushing his thumb across ever plane, every stretch of soft skin.

Harry closes his eyes, leans into the contact, cherishes the touch.

Louis is going to die.

“No,” Harry insists in a mumble, eyes still closed, his eyelashes catching on Louis’ fingertips. “I want to do it right, Louis. It’s different. You’re different.”

“ _You’re_ different,” Louis says, just because he can, because he’s ready to be sick and he’s floating and he might fucking burst. He’s grinning now, can feel his painful, brilliant, blinding grin and Harry’s lips quirk upwards, too. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’ve restored my faith in humanity, Curly. Just by _existing_.” He laughs, grinning, brushing fingers across Harry’s lips which smile wider at the feeling, his eyes intent on Louis, bright. It’s exhilarating. “Just because someone like you exists… You made me fall in love with the world again.”

Harry’s breath catches, just for a moment.

But Louis feels it. Loves that he can _feel_ it.

“You gave me a world I didn’t know was there,” Harry whispers in response, stilling, staring at Louis so gently, so reverently, so adoringly.

And oh, sweet fuck, what is _air??_

Louis’ heart soars. It soars above treetops, on birds’ wings, and breaks through cloud clusters and chases the sun.

“I’ll always give you everything,” Louis says, lightheaded, soaring, full.

Is he high? Is this normal? Does emotion do _this_ to people? He must be high.

He’s so fucking happy.

“I’ll always give _you_ everything,” Harry mimics, sincerely, and they just stare, lost in each other, before Harry breaks out in a wide grin, glancing down at Louis’ lips shyly. “If you want,” he adds quietly.

“I only want what you want to give, what’s good for you to give, and what I will give you in return. What I will never stop giving you,” Louis beams, leaning forward. And he kisses him, seeking the comfort of Harry’s satin mouth that parts eagerly. Because he can, because he finally can and because this is okay. This is what Harry wants.

He’s so. Fucking. Happy.

“Never?” Harry giggles between kisses, his lips warm and red as apples. He giggles. The fucker giggles and he dips in for another kiss, impossibly soft and impossibly perfect, slotted just right to Louis’ body and it _clicks_.

They kiss like they’ve kissed for-fucking-ever and they align like a key in a lock and Louis is so fucking happy.

He thinks he hears the world sigh.

“Never,” he confirms, before they finally break apart, Harry warm and pink and clutching him, calmer and softer than he’s ever been.

“Now,” he says, as Harry leans forward, presses his face gently to the side of Louis’ just because. Just nuzzles into him like a kitten and just breathes him in, just stays there. Louis can smell the sweetness of his curls, can hear his breathing in his ear. He grins even wider. Soaring. “We best go fetch Niall. Then go talk to Zayn.”

He feels Harry nod.

“Together, yeah?” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss to his temple.

He feels Harry’s smile before he sees it, before he raises his head, curls mussed. The smile’s a dopey one, gleeful and almost sleepy, as if drunk.

“Yeah,” Harry says, happily.

And then Louis finds himself kissing him again, grip around him strong.

**

It goes better than Louis expected.

By the time they arrive at the hospital, Liam’s awake and with his parents and Zayn has finally stopped pacing. He grins widely upon seeing Louis and Niall, faltering only slightly when he sees Harry.

“I’ve got to talk to you, mate,” Niall says immediately, and Zayn rips his gaze away from Harry, focuses it to Niall who looks worn, save for his occasional sly grins and quick winks he relentlessly sends Louis’ way. (He was not oblivious to the way Harry snuck his hand into Louis’ on the ride there. He was not oblivious and Louis absolutely did not give a fuck because he was still soaring, soaring higher, and he gripped Harry’s hand firmly and unbreakably, fingers laced.)

Zayn nods, confused. “All right,” he says, and they walk off, Niall’s shoulders slouched.

“At least he didn’t attack me, I suppose,” Harry mumbles, watching them walk away.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Louis insists, poking his side, and when Harry looks to him, the clouds clear. Louis smiles. “Besides, Niall’s going to set it straight.”

Harry nods, catches Louis’ hand.

“Can we see Liam soon?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Louis nods, sliding fingers together. “Shouldn’t be too long now, love.”

Love.

Oops.

Too soon?

But Harry beams at the name, pulls Louis closer by their linked hands and kisses him—open, free, young, beautiful, barriers gone.

It’s, maybe, not appropriate, but Louis thinks Liam will probably approve.

**

“I have to go to rehab,” is the first thing Liam says when they finally get to see him. He’s mortified, glum, weak, and pale. And that’s the first thing he says.

Zayn sighs, shakes his head, but says nothing as he holds his hand from the bedside. He’d returned from his talk with Niall only ten minutes prior, his face remarkably calmer than Louis had anticipated.

“He told me everything,” he’d said, eyes finding Harry’s. “I’m sorry, mate.” He shrugged, a bit lost. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harry said quietly, watching him. “There’s no reason to.”

Despite everything, Zayn’s eyebrows rose, his lips forming into a smirk.

“Oh, trust me. There’s plenty reason to be.”

Harry just shrugged, averting his gaze.

Louis squeezed his hand.

“Where’s Niall?” he asked.

Zayn sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He went back to your flat. He’s ashamed. Says he can’t face Liam.”

Louis sighed.

Of course.

“Are you…happy about that?” he asked tentatively.

Zayn shrugged, gaze falling to the floor.

“Not really. I don’t…” He shrugged again. “I don’t blame him, I guess. Now that I know Liam’s going to be all right, I just want it all to be over. I can see straight now. Just want to move on. No point in dwelling.”And then he looked up, half-smiled at Louis. “It’ll be all right.”

Relief flooded the room.

“Good,” Louis nodded. “It’s just an overall shit situation, really. But. Like you said. It’ll be all right.” He glanced over at Harry, only to find him staring at him, smiling softly. His heart lurched. “It’ll be all right,” he says again.

And now Liam’s awake, they’re clustered in the room, and the first words out of his mouth are about rehab.

“I don’t care where you have to go, you tosser. You’re alive,” Louis blurts, hugging him gently. He always feels in danger of breaking people.

Liam positively pouts.

“This is horrible. This could ruin me.”

“Babe, everybody goes to rehab. It’s not as much of a scandal as it used to be,” Zayn soothes. “It’s not going to set you back if you don’t let it.” He pauses, eyes serious. “And I think it will help.”

Liam looks down.

“Yeah. It probably will.” When he looks back up, his eyes are watery, his smile bumpy. He looks to Zayn, reaching for his hand, which Zayn easily offers. “I love you,” he says with a teary smile.

Zayn swallows, smiles beatifically.

“I love you, too.”

Louis watches, chest tight.

Those are emotions he understands.

He feels Harry shuffle that much closer to him.

He understands.

**

When Liam begins falling asleep, they walk into the hall, including Zayn.

“I want to talk to you,” he says to Harry, eyes full of apology, and Harry nods, casting a quick look at Louis before following.

Louis smiles, is about to flash a thumbs up, when his pocket vibrates.

It’s Niall.

‘ _U comin back soon? Feel like shit’_

Louis feels a slight pang—Niall’s the only one missing from here. Where he belongs. He might miss him.

He taps his reply quickly.

_‘Yeah. Be there soon’_

_‘wit harry?’_

Louis looks up from his phone, looks over to where Harry is, being released from Zayn’s embrace. He’s smiling, bright, sunny, and full, his eyes the color of sun sparkling on the surface of a lake. His skin is warm, full of color. Slowly, he looks over to Louis, catches his eye. His smile widens, his eyes brightening that much more.

And Louis feels warm. Forever warm.

When he goes to smile back, he realizes he’s been smiling the whole time.

Flushed, he returns to his phone, tapping out a reply before sliding it in his back pocket and striding over to Harry and Zayn, finding Harry’s hand as Zayn’s eyes flicker amusedly down to the movement. Louis grins, Harry grins, and neither let go.

_‘Yeah. With Harry.’_

 *

THE END.

(SORT OF)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE.
> 
> :)
> 
> And I will deal with Niall more in there, mmkur? I promise!
> 
> THANK YOU ALL FOR READING AND BEING SO LOVELY AND WONDERFUL. I adore you guys so much. You're too nice to me and you're sweet and your words are a constant source of beauty to me. <3 
> 
> The songs for this last chapter are as such (in order):  
> 1\. Right Now -- One Direction  
> 2\. Everything Will Be Alright -- The Killers (listen to this plz. wowwww it helped me write the whole middle bit)  
> 3\. Green Eyes -- Coldplay  
> 4\. All I Want -- Kodaline (yes again oops)   
> And then, because why not: 5. Young & Beautiful -- Lana del Rey (I hope I did the song justice!)
> 
> Thank you all again and I love youuuuuuu. I'm sorry as well? Mayhaps? Idk. 
> 
> For chats or character asks or questions, come at me bro! Tumblrrrr = mizzwilde
> 
> Big love! <3


	34. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry loves Louis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TARA AND J AND BECKS. YOU ARE ALL MY BRIGHT STARS. THANK YOU. I WILL POUR GOLD AT YOUR FEET AND LINE YOUR ROADS WITH FLOWERS. Honestly, you are all diamonds. Thank you for everything! This ending would've been an erratic mess without you! <3 <3

Louis is a really good boyfriend.

Like, an _extremely_ good boyfriend. Nay—not ‘good’. Incredible. Devoted. Magnificent. Splendid. Stupid, maybe? Punch-drunk? A bit like a slobbering puppy?

Well, regardless.

Louis is good people and that is the only reason he’s juggling five bakery boxes in his arms right now—all filled with various pastries, decorated precisely and carefully and exquisitely—and climbing up that goddamn flight of endless spiral stairs to Zayn’s rooms.

The struggle is real.

When he finally does make the trek to the top and manages to throw himself through the door while maintaining footing and balance, the first thing he’s greeted with is  an immaculately set table—for five—and Harry’s saucer eyes blinking with anxiety, two very large, very different flowers in each hand.

“Which of these whispers ‘we’re going to miss you yet are thrilled with your safe recovery’?” is the first thing he says, cornering Louis and thrusting the flowers in his face.

Louis glances between the two, well-versed enough in Harry-isms to refrain from protest (no matter how inconvenient they may be—his arms are killing him and the cardboard is digging into his bicep) before sighing, taking in the powder blue rose on the left and the magenta and gold stargazer lily on the right. And he continues to stare, a bit baffled.

What was the question, again?

“Er,” he manages, his bicep screaming in protest, and he readjusts the pile in his arms. “The…right one?”

Harry’s eyes almost pop out of his head at the mere implication.

“No, Lou! No, that one’s too _loud_ ,” Harry chastises, his baritone verging on whiny. Oh dear lord. “Have you even been listening to a word I’ve said this whole day? Do you even care about today? You aren’t even _trying_ to make this luncheon nice for Liam. You’re just—“

“Whoah, whoah, settle there, Curly, hold on,” Louis rushes, drowning out Harry’s pouts. With an exasperated sigh, he slides past him, setting the boxes on the table—careful to avoid the china and artfully folded napkins—before turning back around and stepping toe-to-toe with him, immediately cradling his lip-jutted face in his hands.

So it’s going to be one of _those_ kinds of days.

“Harold,” he begins, feeling a smirk form, and Harry’s eyes fall to his mouth. “I know you want to make this perfect for Liam—“

“He’s going to rehab, Louis. _Of course_ it has to be perfect—“

Louis silences him with his forefinger, pushes it against the cushion of his lips.

“Be that as it may, it’s going to be perfect regardless of the flowers you choose to put on the table.”

Harry very nearly squawks at that, but Louis digs his finger in deeper, feels the ridges of Harry’s teeth beneath his skin.

“You’ve done a beautiful job, love. As you always do. And it’s going to be a wonderful luncheon. Not just because of us five lads, but because you always manage to create quite the setting—whether you’re aware of it or not. Now. Can you please just set the roses on the table, set the lilies somewhere else, and help me unpack these five—very large, I might add—boxes that I’ve generously hauled from the bakery? On foot? Because you asked me to? And I didn’t complain once?” With that, Louis extracts his finger from Harry’s lips, ready to begin pastry-distribution in as timely a fashion as possible because Zayn had said he’d be back with Liam _any minute_.

And that was an hour ago.

But then suddenly Harry’s grin blazes into life and he’s catching Louis’ hand between his own, holding him in place.

“You’re quite stunning,” he mumbles, pressing his lips into Louis’ palm. His eyes are lidded with affection, sliding up to lock into Louis’. “Did you know?”

Something pops in Louis’ heart. It spreads goo throughout his insides, might even leak to the floor a bit, soaking the ancient floorboards.

“I did,” Louis tries to say smugly, but his voice cracks and he’s almost positive his eyelashes are fluttering, his cheeks flushed. He has a traitor for a body. “But it’s always nice to be reminded.”

Harry grins wider at that, swoops in for a kiss and pulls Louis to him, arm hooked around the small of his back.

There’s goo everywhere. Goo stuck to Louis’ feet so he may never be able to move away from Harry’s arms ever again.

Oh well.

“I shall remind you always, then,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ lips, his dimple skidding Louis’ thoughts in twelve different directions, all of them slobbering and love-stricken.

“And this is why I love you,” Louis replies, body humming and warm in all the places it’s connected to Harry’s.

Another smile smoothes Harry’s face as he pulls away to look at Louis, gaze fuzzy and soft like hot summer air.

Louis warms even more under the scrutiny, feels an insistent sort of pounding in his limbs because fuck, Harry is just completely beautiful, isn’t he? And he’s looking at Louis like _that_ —like Louis is the beautiful one.

Fuck.

But before Louis’ knees weaken ( _yes_ that can happen and _yes_ that’s already happened—but nobody can prove anything so _no_ , he doesn’t want to talk about it), Harry steps back, releasing Louis from his hold and walking over to the pastry boxes, the sparkly velvet of his blazer crystallizing the room.

And Louis doesn’t feel a ping at that—he really doesn’t.

He knows why Harry hasn’t said… _it_ back yet. He knows that this is all still so new, so fresh and unchartered for him, that he’s only just following what feels right—and saying ‘I love you’ is a foreign concept entirely. It’s very understandable and, if asked, Louis could absolutely write an essay explaining the rationale in detail.

Having said that.

It’s still a bit…anticlimactic.

But no matter.

“We’ll have to give Rory a call,” Harry says, lifting the lids of the boxes and peering inside.

“Rory?” Louis asks, surprised. He walks up to Harry’s back, tucks his chin onto his shoulder. “What for?”

“To set up the pastries, of course.”

Louis stares.

“You can’t…put them on trays yourself?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

Harry stares.

“Are you being serious right now?” Louis continues, absolutely refusing to laugh, placing his hands on Harry’s hips as he peers up at him. “You set the damn _table_ so why can’t you just—“ He stops, taking in Harry’s bite of the lip and his overly—innocent expression as he averts his eyes to the ceiling. “Harry,” he says, suspicion lowering his voice. “ _Did_ you set the table?”

Harry clears his throat, glances at him. “Uhm. Technically?” A pause. “No.”

Oh wow.

Louis rubs at his eyes.

“But,” Harry continues, peeling Louis’ hand away from his eyes. He turns to face him, forming his words with a smile, “I did pick out the china myself! And the flowers. And the cutlery.”

“Who set the table then, Harry?” Louis asks, exasperated. And, maybe, biting his cheek to fight a smile. Perhaps.

A stubborn line forms on Harry’s lips as he stares, hands behind back.

“Harry,” Louis warns, biting his cheek harder as the boy rocks back on his heels, a stray curl bouncing.

“Rory,” he finally admits.

“Rory??” Louis exclaims, immediately darting his hand to Harry’s side, pinching him delicately.

Harry laughs, bright and surprised, immediately capturing Louis’ hand in his own, fingers clamped and unyielding.

“Stop!” he giggles, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’ve already dragged Rory here and made him set the fucking table? And you want to ring him _again??_ What’s wrong with you??” Louis demands, but he’s laughing at Harry’s struggle to keep Louis’ hands away, laughing at Harry’s laugh, laughing at the way the room glows and bows to Harry’s presence.

Laughing because he is really, really fucking in love.

“I was busy getting dressed,” Harry’s voice drags out in the time it would take any normal human being to say three sentences. Slow and deliberate and oddly musical despite its monotony.

With a shake of the head, Louis smiles.

“What am I going to do with you,” he sighs, wishing he didn’t sound so damn _fond_ all of the time as he bops his nose into Harry’s cheek, arms wrapping around his waist.

Harry leans into the feeling, slides his hands over Louis’ arms. He’s smiling.

Always smiling.

“Keep me,” Harry mumbles, resting his lips upon Louis’ forehead. “I’ve been told I make a rather beautiful accessory.”

Beautiful accessory?

_Accessory?_

NOPE. No. _No._

Louis’ eyebrows pinch as he steps back; tilts Harry’s head to meet his gaze full on.

“You’re not an accessory, Harry,” he says, feeling prickly and hearing his voice quiver, just the slightest.

Which…okay, yeah. Louis is a _bit_ over-sensitive when it comes to this sort of thing, is a bit too quick to stomp out any _hint_ at Harry’s worth being less than what it is. But damn it—he has a reason to. Given their past, given Harry’s past, given everything, he has a reason to be sensitive about it, has a reason to enforce Harry’s true worth shamelessly and without fail. He has a reason to pour every fiber of himself into the passion he gives Harry, charges it into his support, his confidence.

Harry blinks his surprise at Louis’ sudden reaction but listens, eyes skittering along the surface of Louis’ face.

“Whoever told you that is a fucking prick,” Louis continues, gripping onto him tighter. “That’s not—you’re not an _accessory!_ You’re a person. An incredible person—one with his own mind and his own actions and… And you’re not just there to look beautiful. Not even a little bit. _”_

Louis tries not to huff. He needs to settle down—his agitation always does get the best of him.

There’s a moment where Harry just stares at him, his face largely unreadable. And then, slowly, a smile begins to form and he leans in, brushes his lips against Louis’ briefly, retrieving his hand and locking it with his own.

“Set up the pastries with me,” is all he says, his grin wide and soft, his voice softer. “And hold my hand.”

Instantly Louis’ agitation evaporates, a smile seamlessly replacing his gritty frown. A smile that is quickly becoming stupidly big. Pushing into his cheeks. Almost painfully.

“Won’t that make it a bit difficult? With your great big paw in mine?” he teases, but he tightens his hold on Harry’s fingers nonetheless.

“No,” Harry responds simply, then grins even wider as he begins to fold back the wax paper.

*

It’s not long after the table is set—pastries carefully placed on dish sets and glinting trays—that there’s a tentative knock on the door.

Curious, Louis opens it, only to find…

Niall.

“Why did you knock?” he asks, taken aback.

Niall shrugs, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, his black shirt pushed up to his elbows. His sweet face is set in guilt, his eyes lightly shadowed.

“Thought it’d be shitty to just barge in,” he says.

Louis frowns.

Ever since Liam’s overdose, Niall hasn’t been…Niall. He’s been cautious, quiet, tentative—he barely even talks to Rory since he refuses to ask favors of anyone, is instead diligently locked in his room doing homework every night before eight—at which point he goes to bed. Actually goes to _bed_. And _sleeps_. Before waking up to eat breakfast. Without even glancing at the piano, for fear of waking Louis.

It’s sort of awful, really. Louis sort of hates it. A lot.

“It’s not shitty. Not when it’s us and Zayn’s rooms,” Louis says, stepping back and gesturing for Niall to enter.

He does, slowly, his hands still in his pockets.

“No whiskey?” Louis jokes, glancing to Harry who’s watching them with a sad tilt to his mouth.

Niall shakes his head, taking in the place settings.

“Didn’t think it was appropriate.” He pauses, shrugs. “Given the situation.”

“Ah. Good call.” Louis tries to keep the frown out of his voice.

“Glad you came,” Harry says, attempting a small smile.

Niall does the same. “Thanks, mate. Glad to be here.”

Silence.

 “Liam will be happy to see you,” Louis says, placing an arm around Niall’s shoulders. “He misses you.”

“Can’t see why he would.”

“Because you’re one of his best mates. And he loves you.”

“Can’t see why he would,” he says again, and Louis swallows back the hoards of frustrations he feels pushing against his throat.

“Niall, it’s not your fault. Liam is equally to blame—he says so himself. Rather, he prefers to take the _full_ blame,” Louis says, maybe for the hundredth time, but as always, Niall shrugs him off.

“Whatever. I just stopped by because I really wanted to see him before he leaves.”

Louis sends another helpless look to Harry, who shakes his head with sympathetic eyes.

“Well. I’m glad you came,” Louis sighs.

Niall nods, but doesn’t say anything, just goes to the window and looks out, refusing to sit down.

*

By the time Zayn returns with Liam, the room has enough tension to launch a catapult and Louis practically leaps out of his chair with excitement at the sight of them.

“Here’s the golden boy!” he roars, immediately barreling over and attacking Liam in an embrace, who giggles and blushes as he clings back.

Zayn watches with a fond smile, eyes slit and sparkling, smelling like a freshly lit cigarette and the sun.

“Sorry it took us a bit,” he says, eyes still on Liam. “We went for a walk.”

“Wanted to enjoy my freedom while I still can,” Liam says sadly.

And Zayn definitely rolls his eyes.

“You’re not being locked in a dungeon, Li.”

“How do you know that?” Liam asks, puppy eyes in full swing. “From the way my father sounded…”

Zayn sighs, pulls him in to brush his lips across his cheek.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it. If it’s anything less than what you want I’ll rip you out of there myself and take you somewhere better—anywhere in the world.”

Liam smiles, pleased and cooing.

“I love you,” he simpers.

“Love you, too,” Zayn replies, easy as air, before ushering him over to the table.

They sit down, Liam immediately commenting on the beauty of the flowers—which almost knocks Harry off his feet with how hard he is positively preening—and everything feels so normal and familiar that it takes Louis a moment to notice that there is one chair that is still yet unoccupied.

“Niall?” he enquires, turning around.

He’s still at the window, hovering on the outskirts of the room awkwardly, his entire demeanor hesitant and cautious. His frown clashes with the light of his face, his summer blue eyes cloudy.

Wrong wrong wrong.

“Niall, have a seat, pull up a chair,” Louis says, smiling invitingly and sweeping his hand over the table. “Don’t be shy.”

Niall just bites his lip, doesn’t move a muscle.

“Yes, please do,” Liam smiles, plucking the napkin off the table with one hand and gesturing to the chair beside him with the other. “It feels like ages since I’ve seen you, mate. I miss you!” Liam’s face is wide, innocent, and smiling like the gleaming china before them.

He probably has no idea that Niall’s been as fucked up as he has been over the entire ordeal. No—scratch that. He _absolutely_ has no idea.

“If you’re sure,” Niall says, low and quiet. Wrong.

Liam tilts his head, his smile turning quizzical.

“Of course I’m sure. Come on, then.”

There’s a beat and then Niall smiles, walks over and takes a seat, smiling wider as Liam beams at him.

“Thank you for coming,” Liam says sincerely.

Niall’s positively shining now. “Thanks for having me, mate.”

And maybe Zayn, Louis, and Harry are all watching the two with watery smiles. And maybe it gets the tiniest bit awkward when the other two boys turn to them, raising their eyebrows at the three sets of eyes intently fawning.

“Well, then,” Louis announces, clearing his throat and attempting to maintain composure. But he can’t stop smiling because Niall is smiling—proper smiling—and this is the most normal it’s all felt since everything happened. And fuck, his body feels oddly close to being emotional and fuck, why do his eyes keep doing that? Why is there moisture??

“Let us eat,” Harry finishes, brushing the back of his hand against Louis’ thigh comfortingly beneath the table.

Which doesn’t help Louis’ frail emotional state.

“To Liam,” Harry announces, raising his champagne flute.

Smiles flicker, eyes settle on a glowing Liam and his wide grin as each flute is raised, the soft, bubbling liquid sparkling under the lights.

Sparkling against Harry’s smile.

(Not that Louis would know. This is Liam’s moment. He’s paying attention to Liam. Liam.)

“To Liam,” comes the chorus in response, and the tinkle of clinking glasses fills the room before they’re emptied and the pastries devoured.

It all goes as smoothly and wonderfully as it always does, Louis notes with relief and happiness.

Zayn and Liam are practically rotting with sweetness, always cooing and always brushing smiles together. Harry’s making inane observations that he regards as brilliant while he grins and laughs and softens his gaze every time he looks at Louis, and Niall…

Well.

About twenty minutes in, Niall started shooting back pastries like shots, his laugh got a little brighter, he helped himself to more liquor, and by the forty minute marker, he was clapping Liam on the back and throwing his head back with laughter every time anybody talked—whether it was funny or not.

“I’ve missed you cunts so fucking much,” he laughs, clapping his hands at Harry’s response of ‘I’m going to make tea,’ when Liam had asked him how he was planning on spending his summer.

“We’ve missed you too, you fucker. Now, you gonna stop hiding out?” Louis asks, unable to stop smiling as he takes in the boy before him. As he takes in _Niall_.

His laughter dies a bit, a more serious sort of smile settling on his face as he considers the question. He rubs his fingers up and down his glass.

“I mean. If you want me, you can have me. I just.” He shifts a bit, brings his bright gaze to Liam. “I’m really fuckin’ sorry about what happened, mate. I never meant—“

“Not at all, Niall,” Liam says immediately, completely unbothered. “It wasn’t your fault at all. In fact it’s…” He sighs, glances to Zayn. “It’s probably a blessing in disguise that it happened at all, really.” He lands a smooth hand on Niall’s shoulder. “Sometimes you’ve got to be woken up a bit, you know?”

Niall nods, absorbing the words.

“I woke you up, then?”

“You did.”

“Well, then.” Niall nods a bit, mostly to himself, before bursting into a grin. “You’re fucking welcome.”

And just like that, Liam laughs delighted as always, and Zayn smiles slightly and Harry giggles as he tickles the end of his nose with one of the roses, and Louis feels the very cells of his body warming and reaching out to everything that he has come to know as home.

 

**

 

The year is crawling by, slowly reaching the end of the term.

Louis spends most of his time in textbooks and Harry’s arms.

“Sugar today?” Louis enquires as he prepares his tea.

They’re wrapped up on the floor, leaning against the couch and surrounded by mounds of embroidered pillows with tassels and thick, woven blankets that stick to their socks. A silver tray sits near their knees, set with a gorgeous tea set that Harry claims was made specifically for him (and it’s so ostentatious and unnervingly charming that Louis doesn’t even doubt it). They pour cup after cup, the steaming liquid tickling their noses as Harry breezes through poetry books and Louis highlights playbooks.

He’s the very portrait of contentment, leaning into Harry’s warm, solid chest that breathes softly, one of his hands absently brushing fingertips up and down along Louis’ arm, his other hand propping up Keats’ _Endymion_ , silently mouthing the words to his favorite lines. Sometimes his lips will brush Louis’ ear when he leans in a bit or when he whispers his favorite words to him. Sometimes he just skims his lips across his hair and neck and temple just because, his eyes never leaving the page. It’s perfect, it’s intoxicating, it’s a little bit distracting seeing as how Louis’ doing his homework, but it’s abso-fucking-lutely perfect and Louis would rather roll in thorns than ever move from this very spot.

Harry blinks lazily at the question, rips his gaze from a particularly long verse as he glances at the dish in Louis’ hand.

“Of course not,” he rumbles musically, pressing a smile into Louis’ hair.

Louis feels him breath him in, feels his deep inhale and it’s…

Wonderful.

“I will have nothing short of agave syrup,” he continues in a purr and Louis blinks, because that was not what he was expecting. After a pause and more of Harry nuzzling into the side of Louis’ face, wrapping his hand that still holds his book gingerly around Louis’ chest, he adds, “It’s my new thing.”

Louis snorts his laughter.

“Stop it, Styles,” he chuckles. “You’re ridiculous. We don’t have any Algonquin syrup or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

“Agave,” Harry corrects, and Louis feels his smile form against his neck. “And yes we do. I bought tons of it. It’s in my rooms.”

“Well, I’m not going to fetch it for you.”

“Have Niall get it.”

“Niall’s not here. Obviously.”

“Text him.”

“Would you just shut up?” Louis laughs, twisting in his arms. He glares at Harry but his lips deceive him, propped up in a wide grin that probably spills all of his secrets and his mad adoration for this charming, ridiculous, exhausting boy he’s found.

Harry smirks.

“Make me.”

Louis doesn’t need to be told twice.

Immediately, he lunges for him, snags Harry’s lips into a kiss that he presses into insistently, his own smirk forming as he feels Harry jolt a bit, the book falling from his hands, his chest constricting with a gasp. He smirks and he twists until they’re bumping hearts, Louis’ hands quick to find Harry’s hair and tug, just like Harry likes, and sending Harry through a small, delightful set of shivers and hums, his own hands delicately tracing the lines of Louis’ back.

“The curves of your lips rewrite history,” Harry manages through stuttered breath, eyes glazed, as Louis drags his lips across his chin, up his jaw, presses his teeth gently into the cushion of Harry’s earlobe.

“That’s not Keats,” he mumbles, nosing his curls.

“I know,” Harry says, voice altered an octave. His hands feel a bit shaky where they’ve come to rest on Louis’ shoulders.

“It’s Wilde,” Louis continues and Harry positively _purrs_ at that.

“It _is,_ ” Harry replies, almost in awe and his grip on Louis tightens as he lunges forward, slamming his mouth against Louis’ insistently.

Well then.

Note to Self: Memorize every word Oscar Wilde has ever said and reference him always.

The edges of his consciousness feel a bit hazy as Harry presses further in upon him, his sweet kisses and sighs and reverent hands drowning Louis and he can feel him, every part of him. Their feet knock the tea tray, rattling the china, and Louis feels the press of Harry’s fallen book digging into his knee and the blankets are tightly swirled around their limbs but he doesn’t care, doesn’t fucking care, because Harry is breathless and beautiful and pliant against Louis and—

And Harry pulls away, catching his breath the minute Louis fingers find his buttons.

“I’m sorry,” he says amidst heavy breath, avoiding Louis’ eyes, cheeks splashed with rose hues.

Louis blinks, startled, searching Harry’s expression as he finds himself, calms his pattering heart and heaving chest.

“Did I—“ Louis begins, feeling a prickle of panic, but Harry immediately shakes his head, kisses Louis’ knuckles with red, wet lips.

“No,” he crackles, voice low and dry. “No, I just.” He considers his words, presses another kiss to Louis’ hand, holding his lips there as he thinks, breath slowing. “It’s different with you. I’m….” He swallows. “A bit.” He swallows again. “Scared. Like.”

Oh god. Louis is going to erupt into fiery, shooting hearts.

Why is this boy so sweet? Why is he everything Louis never dared hope for? Why is he Louis’ and why is Louis so fucking lucky??

“Oh, love,” he croons, petting Harry’s flushed cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I get it, yeah? No rush. Honestly, no rush.” He pauses, catches Harry’s eye. “I’m happy just to dance with you.”

Harry’s lips twitch.

“The Beatles?”

Louis grins.

“I mean. How could I resist?”

“My father’s worked with Paul McCartney.”

Louis rolls his eyes, shoves playfully at Harry’s chest.

“Oh, stop it. You posh kids and your popstar fathers. Just stop.” But he’s smiling and Harry looks relieved, even more thankful, and just so utterly lovely. “Let’s finish my homework, yeah?” Louis continues, pressing one last kiss to Harry’s nose. “How about you read me this shit play and I’ll read you some Keats. Deal? Then maybe I’ll want to rip out my hair a little less?”

Harry chuckles, low and sweet and bumbling, mixing with the steam from the tea, settling in Louis’ lungs like the air.

“Deal,” he agrees, pleased. He pauses, his eyes intent on Louis. “And. Thank you.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow, plucking up _Endymion_.

“For what?”

The evening sun imbeds in Harry’s lashes as he blinks; his warm, creamy eyes fenced in fire.

“For being you.”

And Louis himself is probably fenced in fire now, but he plays it cool, just nods and shrugs and smiles cheekily with a faux-innocent bat of his eyes.

“What can I say?” he says sweetly, and Harry giggles and wraps himself back around him and the rest of the night is spent amidst books and quiet words and a moon that ascends into the sky.

 

**

 

Harry still has his bad days.

He has those days where his texts are short and uninspired. Where he doesn’t pounce on Louis the minute he walks through the door, curls bouncing. Where he doesn’t follow him around and pet his arms and kiss his hands and play piano for him with a smile that dazzles even the cold, cracked floorboards.

Rather, he’ll be quiet, sunken, shaded.

Louis hates it. It hurts him far more than he understands, worries him for reasons he can’t comprehend.

He just _hates_ it.

“I’ve found a place,” Harry says one day as they’re perusing the aisles of an antique shop. “To live.”

The china on the shelf’s a bit dusty, the books are cracked and spotty, and the record player in the corner is crackly and marked as the needle scratches along the grid. Harry insists this is what heaven feels like and Louis admits to finding it rather charming—albeit begrudgingly and secretly because Harry’s smug enough as it is and no, he doesn’t always need to be victorious.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, interest piqued as he admires a porcelain oil lamp. “You’re thinking about buying it?”

Harry’s silent, chews on his lip as he inspects a small, gilt music box; a Renaissance painting woven onto the top.

“Already bought it.”

Oh. Well. That’s surprising.

“Is it near your father?” Louis asks, furrowing his brow.

He already bought it? Really? Why doesn’t Louis know this?

“Not really,” Harry says. He sets down the music box, though his eyes linger on it.

(So of course Louis picks it up and tucks it behind his back the minute Harry looks away.)

“It’s, uh. Near Doncaster,” Harry says, very lightly, very off-handedly.

Which makes Louis stop in his tracks.

“What?”

His heart shits its pants.

Harry swallows, his face the very portrait of anxiety.

“I can change my mind.”

“Change your—?”

“It was stupid,” Harry continues in a rush, still not looking at Louis, making a beeline for the exit. “I’ll call up my—“

“Whoah, Curly, whooah,” Louis interjects, grabbing hold of Harry’s jacket. “No, not at all! No—it’s the very opposite of stupid! It’s fucking… It’s brilliant! Honestly.” He grins, trying to process it all because is Harry _moving closer to him?_

Is this real life?

Louis beams, allowing the reality to sweep him up. “Fucking _brilliant_ ,” he says again, reaching for Harry. Grinning like a madman, he grabs his face, pulls him in for an elated kiss that is mostly his teeth scraping against Harry’s lips.

Harry smiles in response, eyes soft. Yet his own lips remain stiff, etched in anxiety. He nods, but he looks altogether unsure, taking a step back.

Still, Louis brushes it off because _Harry is moving closer to him_ and he still needs to buy this music box pronto. So with one last kiss, he pats Harry’s bum, says a, “Now why don’t you wait outside while I use the loo,” and watches as Harry nods and departs, his shoulders stiff, the tails of his coat flapping as he descends the stairs.

With a smile, he walks to the counter, sets the golden box on the glass surface.

The lady behind the counter smiles above her blue spectacles, her layers of jewelry bright under the glow of the lamps.

“Just this for you, dear?”

Louis grins, nearly bouncing on his heels, as he slides his wallet from his back pocket.

“Just this,” he smiles, so hard it hurts. .

*

Harry’s not himself for the rest of the day.

Louis tells himself that it’s just in his imagination the way that Harry’s smile falters, the way his eyes dart away as quickly as they come, that he doesn’t hold Louis’ hand as often as he normally does. But by the end of the day, when they’re leaving to meet the lads at the restaurant for dinner and Harry grumbles out that he’d rather just stay back and have some alone time, Louis admits defeat.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he sighs, immediately closing the door. Because nope, he certainly isn’t going anywhere without Harry, not in this state.

Harry doesn’t say anything though, just stalks to his room.

Louis might roll his eyes.

“Curly,” he calls, irked, as he follows him. “Don’t avoid the situation. It’s written clear all over your face. What’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” he lies, sitting down at his piano. His hands make no movement to play as he stares down at the keys.

With a great sigh, Louis nudges him over, plops down on the bench beside him. With a patient smile, he takes Harry’s hands, wraps them in his own. Harry’s skin is always so cold. So delicate and pale and porcelain against Louis’ fiery paws.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, gentler, his thumbs brushing against Harry’s knuckles in repetitive swoops.

There’s a heavy pause, one in which Harry’s eyes just watch Louis’ thumbs.

“It’s about the flat, isn’t it?” Louis offers, searching Harry’s downcast face. “You regret buying it.”

Harry doesn’t speak.

Louis’ insides wilt.

“You don’t want to live that close to me and my family,” he concludes flatly. He tries to keep it out of his voice, tries to keep his feelings separate from this, but…

But he’s Louis, so he can’t.

“No, that’s not it at all,” Harry immediately rushes, eyes snapping up to Louis’, imploring and wide. “Not at all,” he emphasizes, and squeezes Louis’ hands.

His insides wilt a bit slower.

“Well, then,” Louis says gently, bumping his head against Harry’s shoulder and causing him to smile, if only briefly. “What is it?”

Harry swallows.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

And oh. He’s wilting again.

But Louis maintains his features, just swallows delicately.

“Why not?”

“Because then it’s…” Harry trails off, turns his head to look out the window, eyebrows furrowed. “It feels a bit more, like, serious then? More… Permanent. I don’t know.”

Ouch. Is that a spear that’s just been driven into Louis’ heart?

Oh, no. That’s Harry Styles.

“And that’s not what you want,” Louis finishes, voice breaking.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

“No, I _do_ ,” Harry says quietly, still staring out at the window, his brows un-furrowing. “I do,” he repeats gently. “But it’s not what I want for _you_.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

He can breathe again.

“All right, Harold Curly Styles, or whatever your name is. You listen to me,” Louis says, his shoulders relaxing. His grip on Harry’s hands tighten as Harry looks to him, his lips twitching at the name. “You need to just stop that, all right? Stop doing that thing you do—where you decide things for me? Yes. That thing. Stop it. _I love you_. A lot. Probably too much, actually. And do I plan to stop loving you any time soon? No. Do I plan to stop loving you _ever?_ No. So do you see the situation now? Do you understand why it’s terribly inconvenient of you to always fight against us? I’m unrelenting and I’m stubborn and I always win, Harry, I do. So let me love you, you great big oaf, and come live next to me so I can be clingy and needy and kiss you every day, okay?” He finishes with a smile, tugs Harry closer to him and pecks a kiss to his cheek. Harry giggles a bit like the little gumdrop he is, glancing downward, shy. Louis tilts his face back up with his forefinger. “Okay?” he repeats softly with a smile.

Harry smiles, allows himself to relax as he gazes at Louis.

“’M not used to this,” he mumbles after a moment. “I’m afraid I’m, like, doing it wrong.”

Louis laughs, just a bit, under his breath.

“Does it _feel_ right? What you’re doing?”

Harry shrugs, eyes still caught on Louis.

“Yeah. I guess, yeah.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

“That simple?” Harry asks, looking so small and beautiful and _small_ as he sighs and curls into Louis, resting his head upon his shoulder.

Louis warms, wraps his arms around his long, lithe body.

“That simple,” he promises into his hair.

A sweet moment of silence follows, their breath filling the space of the room.

“So you’re moving,” Louis continues eventually. He’s smiling through the words, smiling because Harry is growing, because things are just _good_ right now. “Officially. Away from your father.”

He feels Harry nod.

A pause.

Harry plays with a hole in Louis’ cardigan.

Louis pecks the top of his head with a kiss. “I’m proud of you. Like, I’m always proud of you, but right now? I’m even more proud of you. You’re doing the right thing, Harry. And I know it’s not easy.”

He feels Harry swallow.

“Thank you,” his voice says, small.

“We can visit him a lot, you know,” Louis says, beginning to slide his fingers across Harry’s scalp, catching the curls. “As much as you like.”

At that, Harry stirs, lifts his head to look at Louis.

“We can?” he asks, surprised. “You—you want to meet my father?”

Louis smiles, soft, so soft. “Of course. I want to meet him lots of times.”

Harry positively beams.

“And you’ll visit him with me? Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Harry’s grin is enough to power the entire the world into the next Golden Age.

He nuzzles back into Louis, smile still present, the very last of the tension leaving his body.

“Thank you, thank you,” he sighs, wrapping his ankles around Louis’.

“Always welcome, Curly,” Louis replies. And then he remembers. “Oh, by the way. I have a present for you.”

Without another word, he disentangles himself from Harry, walks over to his back in the other room and carefully removes the music box.

He’s already smiling.

“Present?” he hears Harry inquiring from the other room, and he hears his eager footsteps coming to meet him, which only makes Louis laugh.

“You were supposed to stay in there so I could present it to you properly,” Louis laughs as Harry practically bounces up to him, a curl falling in his eye.

His face is youthful and bright, unabashedly eager.

“How could I possibly stay when there’s the promise of presents??” Harry asks, ecstatic. “J’adore les cadeaux.”

“Er, oui. Je m’appelle Louis. Comme ci comme ca. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir,” he supplies uselessly and Harry laughs.

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” he chuckles, gaze skittering over Louis in search of his ‘cadeau’. Or, as Louis likes to say: present.

“Of course. I said my name and other such important things. I’m very fluent in all languages. I’m like Dumbledore. _Anyway_ ,” Louis continues as Harry laughs again, pawing at Louis’ chest. “Here you go, you big puppy.”

Without another word he procures the golden music box, its carvings glinting and catching the light.

Harry’s eyes widen, his mouth opening in surprise.

“How did you know—“ he begins, but Louis narrows his eyes.

“I was _with_ you, you idiot! This afternoon!”

“No, I know, but. How did you know I wanted it? Like, I never said anything or…” He takes the box carefully in his hands, glides his fingers across its surface appraisingly before raising his saucer eyes to Louis. “How did you know?”

Uh.

Louis shrugs, the tiniest bit embarrassed.

“I dunno. I just…could tell? You’re a bit obvious, Curly. I don’t know. Easy to read, I guess.”

At that, Harry smiles wider, before his eyes flick down to the box, opening it carefully and filling the room with its tinkling song.

“It’s perfect,” he says, his baritone echoing off the delicate notes. “Thank you, Louis. Thank you so much.” He’s beaming now, beaming so wide and Louis is beaming right back.

Louis really loves Harry.

“Well, c’mon then,” Louis says eventually, after Harry’s pressed enough simpering kisses to his face and cooed and played the song over and over and over (it’s not annoying, nope, it’s not). “Let’s go grab some dinner with the other idiots. Zayn’s been so stroppy ever since Liam’s left. I can only imagine what Niall’s putting up with.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, tucking the music box beneath his arm.

“Knowing Niall, Zayn’s probably piss drunk and in love with the world. Not even the harsh wind that is Zayn Malik can resist the eternal sunshine that is Niall Horan,” he says, donning a hat with a large blossom tucked in the ribbon.

“Poetic,” Louis comments with a half-smile, then glances down at the music box as he makes to open the door. “Surely you’re not bringing that with you?”

“Of course I am,” Harry comments, offended at the very idea that he wouldn’t. “It’s my new thing. And don’t call me ‘Shirley.’” He grins like he’s clever and Louis fights a laugh because he wishes Harry wasn’t able to pull stupid shit like that off.

That boy.

“Right. Well, sir. Off we go?” he says, offering his arm.

Harry grins, tipping back his hat, hoisting up his music box.

“Off we go,” he agrees,  taking Louis arm.

 

 

**

 

It’s nearing the end of term so, naturally, there’s a school banquet.

It’s held at some posh hotel of some sort—Louis never caught the name as it just sounds like a bunch of consonants shoved together whenever somebody repeats it to him—and it’s everything that the university is: beautiful, tasteful, intimidating…and a bit stuffy.

But there’s free food and free drinks and it’s pleasant enough, chatting with professors and laughing at clever jokes, even if Louis does feel a bit out of his realm.

Niall’s having a grand old time, slinging back whiskey and surrounded by a group of white-haired, pink-cheeked jolly looking men wearing pocket watches, and Louis can’t tell who’s laughing loudest, their boisterous baritones overlapping each other and speaking a language Louis can’t be bothered to decipher.

Liam is with a small group of the stuffiest professors—and the most intimidating—but he seems to be holding up well. His stint in rehab was shortened miraculously (oh, the things money can do) so he was able to come back in time for this, as well as his final exams and the last edition of the school newspaper. Convenient. But he’s happy, having said his time in rehab was both useful and inspiring, and is happily drinking lemon water while he rubs elbows with The Powerful and laughs cleanly at all of their jokes.

Not too much farther is Zayn. Who currently looks so very bored that Louis has to stifle his laughter into his glass. He’s surrounded by a throng of girls, eager for his face and name, the occasional professor stopping by to schmooze; having a father as the chancellor of a school absolutely has its perks in the form of good grades and favoritism, and absolutely has its downfall with unwanted attention and empty praise.

Still, Louis wants to laugh. Zayn genuinely may fall asleep standing up. Or perhaps punch himself in the face.

Briefly, he meets his eye, winks, and Zayn’s lips quirk just barely before he goes back to staring at the wall, nodding absently to the girl beside him who’s chatting a mile a minute.

And then, of course, there’s Harry.

Harry, who is standing in the middle of a circle of immaculately dressed students and professors alike, delighting everybody with his wiles and charms, lighting the room with his glimmering eyes and poison-apple smiles. He drops compliments like rain and warms to everybody’s praise and he just… Well. He loves the attention. He does. He loves it and it loves him and it’s all a bit fascinating to Louis.

Then again, everything about Harry is fascinating to Louis.

He watches for a bit longer (he’s decidedly avoiding conversation at the moment, his pleasantries and small talk having reached their limit) before he finally grabs two glasses of champagne and begins walking towards the sun and all the planets in its orbit.

Careful to avoid spilling, he slithers through the group, ignores the pointed stares and glares and hisses as he makes his way closer to Harry.

“… I just enjoy a bit of piano,” he hears Harry saying as he finally breaches the circle. “It should always be played while learning any subject. Even the tedious ones like Maths are enlightened by a little Chopin.”

Louis rolls his eyes, taking his place at Harry’s side.

“I enjoy a bit of Adele, myself,” he says as all eyes turn to him, resisting the urge to glare at the blonde creature that is standing much too close to Harry, with much too enraptured eyes. “But, ya know. That’s just me.”

Immediately, Harry spins around, eyes brightening the second they find Louis.

“Darling,” he greets, overrun with joy. With the grace of a swan (a rarity with Harry, but he does have his moments) he clasps Louis’ hand and brings it to his lips, bowing ever so slightly. “I knew I felt something beautiful stirring up the dust. Hello.” Harry smiles down at him as he straightens, never releasing Louis’ hand, completely unfazed by their onlookers—some of which are currently bearing fangs.

Hah. Oh well.

“Hey, you,” Louis breathes, nudging Harry with his hip that much more. “I see you’ve captured all the guests?”

Harry’s eyes glint.

“On the contrary, my love, they seem to have captured me.”

The gaggle practically glows at the comment, Louis practically snorts.

“I’m sure,” he says with a smirk, before turning back to the group at large. “So. What are we discussing? Nothing pretentious, I hope?”

“Never that,” Harry says, grin still large, never taking his eyes off of Louis.

“Perfect, Harold. Just what I like to hear,” Louis replies with approval, feeling Harry’s grip on him tighten that much more.

Together, they paint the room in conversation, paint the sour faces sweet and though, no, Louis can’t quite say that he loves the attention like Harry does, he cannot deny that here, alongside Harry, it somehow feels right to share it. 

So, sentences intertwining and smiles matching, they spend the rest of the night at each other’s side. Louis swears everybody watches them, that nobody can take their eyes off of them, and it sends a strange sort of thrill through him, a strange sort of pride.

Because it’s not just ‘There’s Harry Styles’ anymore.

It’s ‘There’s Harry Styles and his boy’ and it spikes through Louis and makes him smile that much wider because he never, ever wants to be anywhere else.

*

When they decide to walk back to Harry’s rooms after the party, drunk off champagne, it seems like a good idea.

“We want to walk!” they said, when Zayn offered his car. “We want to savor the moment!”

And it’s certainly savory, what with the way the moon hangs low in the sky and blanks everything in a glow, with the way the alcohol sings pleasantly in their veins as they walk on slick, rain-fresh pavement.

The night is warm and damp. It feels like Harry’s breath.

“Let’s dance,” he says, extending his hand. “I want to dance, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t hesitate to grasp the proffered fingers, glinting like pale marble against the velvet of the night, and laughs as he’s yanked close to Harry’s body, his arms jerked upward in well-trained pose.

They ballroom dance in the street—no fear of cars, no fear at all—and Harry twirls Louis. He twirls him until he’s dizzy with motion and drink and laughter and the stars swirl as he gazes up at them.

 “’Put out the torches,’” Harry suddenly quotes, staring upward as well once they finally stop to regain their balance, stumbling where they stand. “’Hide the moon. Hide the stars.’”

“Wilde?” Louis offers, though it’s not really a question anymore.

Harry just smiles.

They continue to stare up at the sky, Louis still dizzy, still a little out of breath.

“Hey, Louis Tomlinson," Harry suddenly asks, splitting the calm.

“Yeah?”

A beat of silence.

“Wanna race?”

A smirk twitches Louis’ lips.

“Where to?”

“That bridge.” Harry points, his eyes mischievous.

Louis grins once before sprinting away in a frenzy, not even bothering to reply.

“That’s cheating!” he hears Harry laugh from behind him, but he doesn’t stop, just runs and runs, as fast as his polished oxfords will carry him.

Louis wins, of course.

He reaches the bridge long before Harry does (he thinks Harry might’ve fallen down at some point, but he doesn’t comment on the mud that streaks his slacks) and pummels his chest in victory, Harry laughing hysterically as he reaches him, watching him in glistening delight.

“I win,” Harry sing-songs teasingly, and Louis lunges for him, but he darts away too quickly.

The air is cold as Louis sucks it into his lungs, as he bends over to catch his breath, hands propped on his knees.

“Hey, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says again, a giggle dancing on the edge of his words.

Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Want to know a secret?”

He looks up at Harry who is currently grinning like a fool, eyes outshining the stars.

“All right.”

Harry grins wider at that, beckons Louis forward with his finger.

“Really?” Louis sighs, but he’s smiling, is already walking towards him. “We’re completely alone. You can’t just tell me?”

“It’s a _secret_ ,” Harry insists, but his grin is still growing, his skin flushed with inebriation and his expression bright with youth.

“All right then. Lay it on me,” Louis replies in faux-exasperation, settling hands on his hips impatiently.

Harry beams, pulls Louis in by the back of the neck and presses his mouth against Louis’ ear.

“The moon knows,” is what he says, breath colored in liquor and a smile.

Louis stares at him.

“What _are_ you talking about?”

Another manic grin from Harry, and then he pulls him in again, his hand travelling to the side of Louis’ face, cradling his cheek.

“The moon knows that we’re in love.”

And Louis pauses at that, his entire body and physical processes pause, because Harry has never said he loves Louis. He’s implied it, his eyes have whispered it, but he’s never _said_ it and…did he just, sort of, maybe say it?

“Wha—“ he begins, dizzy, his veins filling, but Harry steps even closer, continues to whisper even lower.

“I’m in love with you, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, curls the words in Louis’ ear, and when Louis pulls back to look at him, his gaze is dazed and soft, grinning with freedom and the recklessness of inebriation. Fond. “And this belongs to you,” he continues in his low, rumbling volume as he places Louis’ hand over his heart and presses it there, holds it there with his cool fingers clasped around Louis’ wrist. “It’s yours, and yours to keep, and nobody deserves to know because nobody else matters.”

Louis thinks he might die, standing here with the perspiration layering his skin like a delicate film, the gaze of the heavens alighting his limbs as he feels the beat of Harry’s thumping heart beneath his fingers.

Harry’s gaze burns into him like white fire.

And breathing is currently hard, near impossible, but Louis defies reality and smiles, stepping closer and exhaling through a breathy whisper, “Hey, Harry Styles?”

And Harry breaks into a wider grin, shuffles closer still, whispers, “What?”

There’s a delicate, moon-laden moment where they’re just pressed against each other, lost in each others’ gazes, surrounded by endless night and endless sky and slick roads. Louis would hate to wax cliché but… time might have actually fucking stopped. In the most delicious way.

But then Louis’ lips twitch and he’s taking a step back, breaking free of Harry’s clutch and lifts himself on his tippy toes, throwing his head back to the sky.

“I LOVE YOU, TOO!” he shouts, throws the words from his chest, arms flung wide. “I LOVE YOU, HARRY EDWARD STYLES!”

And, nope, Louis never ever thought he’d be the type to drunkenly screech his love to the sleeping world but here he is and here they are and when Harry’s face bursts into life and color like a newborn star, Louis knows that he never wants to stop being this person.

“I LOVE YOU!” he screams again, just to watch the jade of Harry’s eyes dance, and he’s breathless and elated and everything feels endless.

“What are you doing?” Harry giggles, glancing brightly between Louis and the sky as he tumbles over, grabbing for Louis’ hands, his shirt, his face.

“I’m filling up the sky with my love for you,” Louis says simply, catching his breath with a shrug. “So whenever you look up, it echoes back.” 

“No matter where I am?” Harry asks, his smile softening as he nuzzles gently into his cheek, breathing him in, nose brushing his jawline and sending cascades of shivers down his spine.

“No matter where you are,” Louis affirms. “There’s only one sky.”

“We all share the same sky,” Harry agrees. He pauses, skimming fingertips across Louis’ collarbones. “But I should always like to hear _you_ say it,” Harry whispers, almost tentatively. “Not an echo. I want you _beside_ me under every sky. Always.”

Things are sizzling inside Louis, snapping and stealing his breath.

“Will always be beside you, Harry,” Louis murmurs, cradling his face. “The sky’s just the backing track, of course.” He smiles.

Harry glows.

“Of course,” agrees.

They stay there a moment longer, Louis pulling Harry down to brush cool lips against his own, losing himself in the sensation of everything Harry, everything exquisite. He allows him to steal his breath—through the warmth of his mouth and the cadence of his lips that slide so sweetly against Louis’ own.

A perfect match.

“Let’s go home,” Louis eventually says, pulling back to watch Harry’s eyes refocus.

He nods, face glazed in a soft smile that blends with the muted lights and the glinting shop windows and the flickering streetlamps that stand so tall all around them.

“Let us,” he agrees, before suddenly grinning—rather manically—and throwing his head back, his chest filling. “I LOVE LOUIS TOMLINSON!” he bellows, far more impressively than Louis (he sounds like an absolute Titan, his voice akin to thunder) and closing his eyes blissfully before dropping his head back down, his kissed lips very pleased with themselves.

“What was that for?” Louis laughs, surprised.

Harry opens his eyes.

“Because I love you,” he smiles slow. “And because I want a backing track, too.” His grin is lopsided.

“Come on, you idiot,” Louis laughs, refusing to give into the flush of his skin as he pulls Harry along, stumbling over his clicking, sleek boots.

And as they walk, fingers laced with fingers and the clicks of their heels synching together as they laugh, laugh, laugh, Louis swears he can hear their voices mingled in the sky, dancing between the stars.

 

**

 

They’re going home tomorrow.

The term has ended, Louis’ marks are near perfect (Harry credits it to himself, Louis swats at him) and Niall’s already booking them hotels for all the vacations he demands they take.

“We’ll only be apart for two weeks before you whisk me away to Greece?” Louis laughed, incredulous.

“Two weeks is a long time, Tommo!” Niall said indignantly, but he winked, flinging an arm around his shoulders. “I’m tellin’ ya, mate. You’ll fuckin’ love it there. It’s incredible. Most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, I’m not going.”

“And why the fuck not?”

“I don’t have the money to—“

“All right, go and piss that excuse out your arsehole. I’m bringing you and can either go with it or put up a fuss, but you’re coming Tommo and that’s that.”

Louis glared at him, refusing to feel gratitude because no, he did _not_ agree to this.

“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you.”

“Nah. I’m not little. I’m a bossy giant,” Niall winked and Louis huffed, folding his arms over his chest. “But come, yeah? Please? I’ve booked everything and I’ll need my best mates there.”

Louis perked.

“Oh? Everybody else is going?”

“’Course.”

Instantly, he beamed.

“Well, why didn’t you say so! I’ll be glad to come!”

And Niall laughed, shaking his head, departing from Louis’ side to pick up his guitar.

“Wanker.”

Louis blew a kiss.

“Love you,” he sang.

“Love you more,” Niall boomed, before banging on the guitar.

So, really, Louis doesn’t have anything to worry about. He’ll see the lads often enough—probably will end up seeing Niall all the time, given that he’s his mum’s new best friend—and he’ll have quality time with his family and Stan for the first time in forever. It’s basically an ideal situation.

Except for one thing.

And it comes in the form of curls, sinful lips, and sparkly giggles.

Because, yeah, Harry will be moving into his flat sometime during the summer and yes, he will be a ten minute drive away but…

But.

But the thing is, is that this place, this university, this town has become something special to Louis. Has almost become synonymous with Harry. And taking them away from it, taking them away from Harry’s rooms and his and Niall’s flat and taking them away from all of their memories and their moments and their haunts just seems terribly upsetting to Louis. It almost seems terrifying, even.

Because what if he and Harry don’t work in the real world? What if they only work when they’re amidst ancient stone walls and heavy oak doors and yellow-paged books and nooks and crannies? What if the world sweeps Harry away and what if Harry hates Louis’ family and Louis’ family hates Harry and what if they grow apart and what if Harry forgets about him and _what if??_

Louis feels too much.

So it comes as no surprise that, on their last night together, Louis practically suctions himself to Harry. He moulds himself to his body, kissing every reachable part of him every other minute as the candles flicker, the windows open and ushering in soft breezes that carry the light perfume of baby blossoms.

Harry’s things are packed in chests and suitcases all around them, the shelves empty and barren, the Persian rugs rolled up and leaning against the cold, blackened fireplace. The china’s wrapped and put away and the desk’s drawers are empty and the piano’s even covered with a billowing white sheet. It’s all so final, so empty, so…terrifying.

They’re supposed to be doing something, packing a bit more perhaps. Maybe doing something grand and fun? But instead they’re just lying together on the floor in a pile of interwoven limbs, all of the lights off save for Harry’s scented candles, as they stare up at the night sky through the open windows, Harry’s records playing softly in the background.

They can barely bring themselves to speak, everything feeling just a bit too fragile and precarious and inexplicably painful. They just lie there and touch, existing together.

Until Louis breaks the silence.

“I’m going to miss you every second I’m not with you. I hope you know that,” he whispers against Harry’s cheek. He bites back the wave of sadness that threatens to do something terrible like fill his eyes, so he closes them, just pulls Harry closer by his silky white shirt. “You have ruined me, Harry Styles. Ruined me and made me one of those clingy things. Do you find yourself very cruel for ruining me this way?” His words are teasing yet there’s the underlying stench of sincerity there and Louis just swallows because he can’t act this away, can’t pretend that’s he not just the tiniest bit depressed about it all.

Harry’s response is to turn his head, brushing his lips against the bridge between Louis’ eyebrows.

“I find that you are the cruel one in this, Louis Tomlinson,” he mumbles, voice cracked like parchment.

Louis feels him swallow and he dares to open his eyes, meets with Harry’s gaze that is wet, mournfully sweet and delicate as he watches Louis with all the careful reverence of a dream.

He scrunches his brows inquisitively as Harry continues to stare before the latter sighs, eyes falling to Louis’ lips.

“You are _impossibly_ cruel, Louis,” Harry whispers, turning his body to face him so that they are nose-to-nose, heart-to-heart. Louis’ entire body is thrumming with too many emotions and too many desires and too many fears. “You are cruel for making everything else seem dull. You are cruel for imprisoning me in your very touch—“—carefully, he brings the pads of his fingers to Louis’ cheekbones, swirls delicate patterns onto his flesh—“—for freeing me with your every word—“—his fingers slide to graze over Louis’ lips—“—and for bestowing upon me the most painful sense of longing that I’ve ever had the pleasure to suffer at the hands of. You have shown me color in a world of gray and you are cruel, Louis Tomlinson, for you take the color with you every moment that you’re not beside me.  You are cruel because I will gladly suffer until the world has returned.” At that, Harry’s eyes flicker up to Louis’, and the words linger in his stare, pelting Louis again and again and again.

And Louis might actually die.

“Harry,” he breathes, pulling him closer, pulling him until Harry’s lips find his and he can feel again, feel Harry—the world.

He doesn’t want the night to end, he doesn’t want to go just one day without this boy (love is horrible, it’s awful, it’s _unhealthy_ for fuck’s sake) and it terrifies him a bit, terrifies him that he just needs another soul so much. But it’s as intoxicating as it is toxic, thrilling as it is chilling.

Louis wants.

“We’ll see each other every day,” Harry whispers between fevered kisses, his curls tumbling and tangling in Louis’ fingers, his skin hot, his shirt clinging to his skin and catching on Louis’ angles. “I’ll move into the flat as soon as I can.”

The words tingle Louis, run up his spine and make his heart beat faster.

“Promise me,” he finds himself saying as Harry mouths at his neck and when did he become so _needy?_  

But he doesn’t care, doesn’t fucking care because he’s not scared.

“I promise,” Harry manages, the words formed into Louis’ skin and it’s all so, so much.

Louis loves Harry so, so much.

“Louis,” Harry suddenly says quietly, and it sounds like a plea, his hands scrambling over his body, settling up on the waistband of his jeans and—oh.

_Oh._

Louis breaks off, inspects Harry’s flushed face and burning eyes, lit with fire and the orange, flickering shadow of candle flame.

“Harry?” he questions, voice barely above a whisper. There’s a heavy silence as they stare at each other, Louis trying to decipher the flickers in Harry’s eyes, his breath coming out in uneven spurts. The silent plea is in Harry’s breath, in his hands, in his stare. And Louis’ chest is collapsing. “Are you…sure?”

It feels delicate and unknown, that unspoken question.

But Harry’s nodding, he’s nodding and moving in again, mouth latching onto Louis’ collarbones and _fuck_ this actually is sort of terrifying, isn’t it?

This is _real_. This is Harry, his _Harry_ , and it’s happening.

“Okay,” he finds himself saying, breathless, his heart picking up speed (is he going to die?) and jerking his hands unsteady.  “Okay,” he says again and calms his breathing, focuses his vision, focuses his thoughts.

Because this has to be special. This has to be monu-fucking-mental and this has to be careful because this is their last night together for awhile, the last night before summer and everything that it may bring, and it’s Harry—the only boy he’s ever properly loved, the only boy he’s ever cared enough about to fight for.

There have been others, yeah. There have been flings and month-long ‘relationships’ and enough flirting to fill the oceans and major lakes but there’s never been that single, shining person. There’s never been that one. And it had never bothered him because he’s always put himself first, has always loved himself first and foremost, but now here’s that single, shining person, here’s the _one_. And he’s got to do this right, lest he scare him away forever.

Fuck.

Very terrifying, indeed.

So Louis fully intends to take this slow. To take the scenic route, if you will.

“I love you,” he mumbles, lifting Harry’s head to meet his lips and Harry makes an indecipherable noise that’s a complete mixture of adorable, romantic, and fucking _irresistible_ and so Louis says it again, enjoys the way the words affect Harry’s body, the way it quickens his heart.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, nodding a bit frantically, and Louis smiles, brushing back his hair and trying to catch his eye as he rubs his hands along Harry’s skin soothingly, slowly, taking his time as much as he can and—

And Harry’s unzipping Louis’ pants, sitting up to straddle his legs, lips caught between his teeth, eyes covered in shadow as the night haloes his body.

Which.

Uhm.

Wasn’t Harry the one who wanted to…take things slow?

Louis glances up at him, trying to read his face despite the darkened room, but all he can see is the determined set to Harry’s mouth as he slides his fingers inside Louis’ jeans, his other hand tugging the waistband down eagerly and, okay, it’s certainly not unpleasant, but Louis’ trying to grasp what’s happening.

He’s beautiful, so beautiful, and Louis reaches out to brush the hair out of his eyes, to still him with a lingering kiss, but Harry pulls away, hands reaching to palm Louis through his briefs—that Harry’s already peeling off with practice, silent and focused.

It’s a bit… _Off_ , to be honest. Something doesn’t feel right.

“In a rush?” Louis laughs breathlessly, trying for light, but Harry doesn’t laugh, just peels the briefs further down and no, _this doesn’t feel right_.

Instantly, Louis stills Harry’s hands.

“Harry?” he questions, brows pinching.

His gaze meets Louis’, burning and intent.

“I want to make you feel good,” is what he says, impassioned, making to break free from Louis’ grasp, to resume his progress. “I’m good at this, I can make you feel good,” he promises, and it’s like…

It’s like he’s trying to prove himself to Louis.

As if all of his worth boils down to this, to _sex_ , and Louis’ throat closes up at the thought, his stomach constricting.

“No, no, Harry,” he says, sitting up, twisting his fingers with Harry’s. “This isn’t about me,” he insists softly. “It’s about _us_.”

But Harry’s biting the cushion of his flushed lips and avoiding Louis’ gaze, and still it doesn’t feel right.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Louis says calmly after a moment, stroking Harry’s cheeks with the backs of his fingers. And he means it, absolutely means it, which means he must either be made of steel or really fucking in love.

He thinks it’s probably the latter.

Harry swallows, shaking his head vehemently before the sentence is even finished, eyes still averted.

“No, no I want to—I really do want to—to be with you,” Harry struggles and is blushing, turning crimson. Harry, who has had every kind of sex imaginable in, probably, every position physically possible, on, probably, every single continent is _blushing_. For _Louis_.

There’s a pregnant pause, one where Harry still won’t look at Louis, his cheeks still flaming, before Louis gently tilts his chin up, scrapes the pad of his thumb over the soft flesh there.

“I want you, too,” he says simply, never releasing his hold, his breath whispering against Harry’s skin.

Harry swallows at the words, blinks slowly as they wash over the room.

“Yeah?” he asks in a whisper, voice scratchy. His eyes flick up to Louis’ just briefly before darting away again.

“Yes, of course,” Louis says, reverently, leaning in and capturing him with the softest brush of the lips. “Of course I do. I want everything with you.” He dips in again, lips firmer, pressing that much harder against Harry’s awaiting ones before pulling away again. “You make me want the soppy shit in life.” Another, firmer kiss, one that leaves Harry chasing after it after he’s pulled away again. “You make me want to learn how to cook more than a pot of water so I can make you dinner.” Yet another longer kiss, punctuated by a second kiss to Harry’s jaw that loosens his limbs that bit more. “You make me want to fold my laundry and set aside money to buy you presents and pick you ugly flowers I find struggling to grow and you make me want to be a better person—one that’s always here for you, one that shares everything with you, one that gives everything to you.” At this, he pulls back, stares into Harry’s eyes which have finally settled upon Louis, dilated and wide. “You make me want it all, but mostly, you make me want you.”

The sound of Harry’s breath is the only thing that fills the space between them as Louis waits, brushes his fingers along the angles of Harry’s face, the warmth of his body seeping into his own.

And then suddenly Harry jolts up, grips at Louis with unyielding hands, and crashes his lips against his own—insistently, beautifully, unbreakingly.

“Yeah?” Louis pants in an unspoken question, managing to rip away from the hypnotic slide of Harry’s mouth, eyes closed. He feels heavy, his limbs sunken in the thick perfume of desire, and his mouth is pressing against Harry’s cheek, maybe the corner of his mouth, he doesn’t know. Just knows that he can’t lift his head as he exchanges air with Harry, as he feels the pricklings of sweat begin to bead, as he feels Harry’s forehead press against his own.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes in response, breathless and light, nodding. He smears a kiss to the corner of Louis’ eye, warm, wet, _entrancing_. “’M in love with you.”

“Love you, too. Trust you.”

“Trust you, too.”

And Louis melts, melts into the fucking floor, or maybe into Harry, continues to kiss him with as much passion as he can dreg up and seeks his hands again, entwining their fingers in time with Harry’s sharp intakes of breath and the purrs that coil in the back of his throat. Their palms jot together, warm and balanced, and Louis holds him through each deepened kiss, through each meticulous glide of their bodies, until he forgets where he ends and Harry begins and he doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t ever want to be reminded again.

*

When Louis awakens later, startled from a dream, the moonlight is streaming through the opened windows, illuminating the curtains and the bare skin of their sheet-entangled bodies.

He looks down, blinking away his dreams, only to find a dream born of reality—his hand engulfed by Harry’s own, pressed against his heart, a small smile delicately painted upon his lips. It warms him immediately, sending quick, silvery flashes of memory throughout his marked and pleasantly aching body. He gazes down at him, revels in the feel of their hands, revels in the reality that he’s his.

That Harry is _his_.

And that he is Harry’s.

He’s the very portrait of peace, the very portrait of someone who’s been rebuilt, his heart reopened and allowing the world back in. Allowing _Louis_ in.

It takes his breath away.

He didn’t think that actually could happen but, yep, it’s happening; Harry takes Louis’ fucking _breath_ away.

And suddenly he’s flooded, absolutely flooded, with love and adoration and softness and desire and every other feeling that whispers ‘forever’ and ‘always’ and ‘home’; because Louis has found his forever, has found his always, has found his home.

With Harry pressing Louis’ palm against his heart, his skin soft and milky, his eyelashes stretching across his cheeks, any qualms or anxieties or fears that Louis may have ever harbored—or will ever harbor—fade, leaving only the quiet knowledge that it’s going to be all right.

That they’re always going to be all right.

That Louis will fight to the ends of the Earth for this boy and that Harry will fight, too.

That he loves Harry unyieldingly, and Harry loves Louis, too.

That Harry saved Louis.

And Louis saved Harry.

And with that, the reassurance flooding his veins and his brain and everything that his soul is made of, he drifts back to sleep, serenaded by the music of Harry’s heart, beating beneath his fingers.

~FIN~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. 
> 
> *Note* So I've written some little snippets of their futures on the tumblrrrr. [Here they are](http://mizzwilde.tumblr.com/post/82799567567/hi-so-i-just-finished-y-b-and-i-poured-through-your-tag) [And here!](http://mizzwilde.tumblr.com/post/75812060134/what-do-you-imagine-happening-in-the-future-for-the)
> 
> Wow. Wowww okay so this has been such a journey, hasn't it? Wow wow wowww. Well. It's 3 in the morning and I'm getting oddly emotional about this, so lemme just say that I didn't actually listen to any songs while I wrote this chapter. Which I just realized. Weird. 
> 
> However, there is a particular song that I like to imagine playing at the end credits (heh) and it's one of my favs. "A Change is Gonna Come" by Sam Cooke
> 
> Other songs that fit are:
> 
> "Wondrous Place" by the Last Shadow Puppets
> 
> "The Subarbs (Cont'd)" by Arcade Fire [again]
> 
> "You've Got the Love" by Florence & and the Machine
> 
> "Perfect Day" by Scala [again] BUT LISTEN TO THIS SERIOUSLY THIS IS THE PERFECT SONG TO THIS STORY! There are pianos and beauty and it sounds like a waterfall if waterfalls had voices. Le siiigh. :)
> 
> and
> 
> "I'm Set Free" by The Velvet Underground -- which is my official ending Harry song :') 
> 
> Also. Just because, a perfect Louis and Harry song for the very beginning of the story (I always forgot to include it oops) is "Play With Fire" by The Rolling Stones. PERFECT SONG AND IT PERFECTLY FITS. Look it up!
> 
> Anyway. So, thank you all so, so much. Honestly. I have gotten the most beautiful messages and made the most beautiful friends and I am getting all emotional over here right now so I'm just going to say I love you all so, so much. And I appreciate every word said. I have so many feelings. 
> 
> Ohkay. Thank you all again. Come to me if you want to talk or have any questions or art (mizzwilde = tumblr) 
> 
> Roses and lilies for all of you. 
> 
> Kisses,  
> velvetoscar


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